


Danse Macabre

by erebones



Series: Danse Macabre [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Background Relationships, Canon Divergence, F/M, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Lyrium, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Slow Burn, Templars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:52:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 60,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4699847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian Pavus is a lyrium enchanter, the first mage to be successfully experimented on by Danarius and his Venatori cohorts. After years on the run, Dorian falls in with the Inquisition and (literally) into the arms of Commander Cullen Rutherford, whose own problems with lyrium are just beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. intro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my fanfic entry for fyeahcullrian's Cullrian Minibang! My partner(s) were kicks and shoes of kickingshoes.tumblr.com, and their fantastic artwork can be found in Chapter 2. :)

The old country estate was as quiet as a mausoleum. Slaves melted into the shadows or slipped through hidden passages, unseen. Plush Antivan carpets soaked up any sliver of sound, and all the drapes were drawn tight, turning the light a muted grey. Standing at the great double doors of the mansion, the chief butler may as well have been carved from marble. He stood stiffly, hands at his sides, grey hair smoothed back from catlike features. Not a single speck of his uniform was out of place.

The double doors banged open suddenly and the lady of the house strode in, mourning silks swirling behind her in a ripple of black. “Sebren,” she snapped, and the elf jerked to attention like a lightning-struck sapling, “Where is my husband?”

“Master Pavus is in his study, my lady,” the elf said stiffly, bowing low. “I can take you to him—”

“No need.” Lady Aquinea strode past him to the stairs, ignoring him as he trotted after her anxiously.

“My lady, he will not be pleased. At least allow me to announce you—”

“No. This matter is too grave for pleasantries.” She rapped once on a dark oak door and pushed it open without waiting for an answer.

Magister Halward Pavus sat at his desk, bent over some correspondence. He frowned at the intrusion but didn't look up. “Sebren, this is most irregular—” He was cut off abruptly as his wife raised a clenched fist. An invisible prison sprang up around him, pinning his wrists to the desk and squeezing his throat in warning.

“Halward, how could you?”

“Dear wife,” Halward rasped through the force of the barrier. “What an unexpected pleasure.” His forefinger twitched, but Aquinea clamped down ruthlessly and he let out a strangled cry.

“One year,” she hissed, eyes blazing. “An entire year you let me believe my son was dead, my only child the victim of your stupid political scheming. And all this time he was _alive_?”

Halward’s mouth gaped like a fish’s, skin turning sickly grey. With a growl, Aquinea snapped her fingers and released the barrier. Her husband slumped across his half-written letter, gasping and massaging his wrists while she looked on impassively. “It was... a precaution. I did not wish you to be put in danger.”

“So you put our only son in danger instead?” Her eyes narrowed as she approached the desk, steel sheathed in glimmering silk. “I know you did not approve of his... proclivities...”

“No. You misunderstand. It wasn't… _that_.”

“Then what? What could possibly possess you to keep Dorian from me for all these months?” One hand snaked out and latched onto Halward's wrist. “Take me to him. _Now_.”

“I cannot. He is... sleeping. He is in recovery.”

For the first time, Aquinea's determination faltered. “Recovery? Has he been ill?”

“...Yes. I did not wish to worry you.” Halward's eyes darted around the room and he spoke quickly, not making eye contact with his wife. “It was touch and go for so long, the healers were certain he wouldn't live. And your presence at his bedside would only put you at risk. I thought it better if you believed he died valiantly defending his best friend from darkspawn rather than dwindling slowly in a bed for eleven months.”

“You thought incorrectly.” Aquinea released him ungently, and he winced. “No more talk. I will see him now.”

Reluctant, Halward stood and led the way through the master suite to a small side chamber. It had once been a spare washroom, but with only himself in residence, it had been remodeled into a sickroom. The drapes were drawn here as well, with only an oil lamp burning low to keep the shadows at bay. The room was kept strictly pristine, every surface bare and spotless, and in the middle of room a rigid figure lay sleeping in a narrow bed.

Aquinea gasped softly as she approached. The canopy was drawn back on one side, the counterpane folded down with military precision to the invalid's waist. The man himself was hardly distinguishable as living. From his hands, curled loosely on top of the sheets, to the top of his head, he was swathed in layers of crisp white bandages. The only skin revealed were his fingers. Even his face was completely covered, with holes cut through the stiffened fabric for the eyes, nose, and mouth.

“Maker save me, Halward,” she breathed, hands hovering but not quite touching those of her son.

“You see why I tried to keep this from you,” Halward said gravely. He stood a little ways from the bed, hands behind his back and nose wrinkled politely. “He is fighting, but the battle is long and arduous, with no guarantee of recovery.”

Aquinea sniffed and held her hand briefly to her nose. “That smell...”

“The taint,” he explained. “It is unpleasant,  I know.”

She made a small sound of distress and turned away. “I... I am sorry for doubting you, husband. I was so angry...”

“Come, my dear. It is upsetting for you to be here.” He laid his hand on his wife's arm and led her gently from the room. The door clicked shut behind them.

On the other side of the wall, behind a hidden door for the use of servants and slaves, Felix Alexius let out a soft sigh and lifted his ear from the hairline crack in the stone. “He fell for it. Thank the Maker.”

“They both did,” said the man on his other side, voice muffled by the bandages wrapped around his head and face. He was free of the cotton swaddling everywhere else, dressed in a simple jerkin and leggings that belied his noble blood. He leaned against his friend as if standing were a chore. “Did you hear her voice, Felix? She sounded... broken.”

“I heard. But she's strong, your mother. She'll be alright.” Felix hesitated. “Perhaps, once you're out of Tevinter, I could...”

“No. It's far too dangerous. Better she believes me irreparably ill or dead than the truth.”

“As you say.” Felix slipped his arm around his friend’s back. “Are you ready? Sebren will be waiting.”

“Hold a moment. These blasted bandages, I… It's not pretty, but I'd rather be able to breathe without sounding like a herd of druffalo.”

“Eloquent as ever, I see,” Felix teased. “Are you sure? Should they be... exposed?”

“I’ll survive. It’s been a month now, since they… since the last visit.” He was already reaching up to unwind the bandages. They were stiffer over his nose and eyes, formed with water and plaster to shape to his face. Felix caught a whiff of mint and bitter earth, and flakes of dried blood and elfroot poultice sprinkled the flagstone floor as the bandages were peeled away.

Dorian Pavus lowered his hands and looked back at him, bare-faced for the first time in weeks. Felix sucked in a little breath. Strangely, it was his friend’s hair that struck him first. As children it had been wildly curly, but adulthood had smoothed the curls into long raven waves that Dorian had once worn oiled and braided in all the latest Minrathous fashions. Now it was no more than black stubble, marred by a streak of silver bristle just to the left of his widow’s peak. His beloved mustache, which he’d cultivated as carefully as a simpering _princessa_ since the age of fifteen, was completely gone.

“That bad, is it?”

Felix realized he’d been staring, and shook his head quickly to reassure him. “It’s… no, it’s just. Maker, Dorian, your _hair_.”

Dorian's face creased in a ghastly parody of a smile. "All this and it's the _hair_ that gets to you?" He spread his arms to indicate his body. It was slim and underfed from nearly a year spent in and out of a drugged slumber, muscles wasted through bed rest and constant pain. Around his bare arms and under the collar of his tunic crept brilliant silver-white lines: lyrium brands that cut into his dark skin and glowed faintly in the dimness of the hidden passage. Up his throat, over his chin in a dotted line, and following the curvature of his skull, the lines mapped the mana that lay under his skin, reminiscent of the macabre Rivaini death masks worn by their shamans and seers.

Felix reached out, but didn't quite touch as Dorian flinched away. “Sorry. Does it hurt?”

“Maker, yes. It's swollen, still. I probably look a sight.”

“It's certainly something.” Felix sighed and dropped his hand, face crumpling. “Dorian, I'm so sorry. If I'd had any idea what was happening…”

“Hush. It's done now.” Dorian gripped his hand. “You've done so much just in getting me out of here. Speaking of, if you can bear to look away from my gruesome face, we ought to get a move on or Sebren will start to worry.”

Felix grunted agreement and looped his arm under Dorian's shoulders. “Come on, then. This way.”

Dorian shuffled forward with his friend's support, trying to pretend that every step wasn’t agony. After a year of bed rest, every muscle protested at the smallest task, and the soles of his feet felt as tender as new-grown skin. “Who was that, by the way? The decoy?”

“Rhessius,” Felix replied grimly. “He volunteered.”

“You dealt the killing blow?”

“No, he… drank something. I didn't ask. I couldn't…” Felix winced and shook his head, altering his train of thought. “He always looked more like you than me, anyway. Probably explains why I was such a well-behaved child. Watching my whipping boy take my punishments when he happened to be the spitting image of my best friend was a great deterrent to mischief.”

“When do you think Halward will catch on?”

“Hopefully not until Danarius comes the day after tomorrow. Aunt Aquinea will keep him occupied for now.”

“He rarely looked in on me anyway. Always busy in his study writing letters, Sebren tells me. You got the smell down pat, at least.”

“Don't lay the credit on me—I was trying to prevent it. I put a preservation spell on him, but it's unraveling fast.”

“Hmm.” Dorian trailed off, too breathless and aching to keep up the conversation. Where once he would have chattered away contentedly, keeping up a rapier-sharp debate with his boyhood friend, now he was forced to keep quiet just to catch his breath. He shook a little where he leaned on Felix, and his feet and face throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Felix’s hold tightened briefly and released.

“Almost there,” he murmured. Ahead, the narrow corridor cut off abruptly, sliced by a thin strip of brilliant white daylight. Dorian closed his eyes wearily. His journey was only just beginning.

On the other side of the false wall, Sebren awaited them, wringing his hands. “Master Dorian, Master Felix,” he greeted them, bowing low. “It is good to see you out of bed, sir.”

“It’s good to be out of it,” Dorian replied boldly, though he would have collapsed without Felix's support. He couldn’t keep his eyes open for long in the bright white of late evening, and he wished briefly for his bandages back—but the kiss of fresh air was too sweet to resist.

“This way, if you please,” Sebren was saying. He got on Dorian’s other side and together they helped him through the heavy foliage of the hanging gardens to the underground escape route, built for the family’s use during the Qunari invasion. A young elven girl was waiting for them just inside, holding the reins of a wide-backed horse. Dorian didn’t recognize her from his father’s household, but she bowed with familiarity as Felix helped him onto the horse.

“This is Ariala," he said by way of introduction. “She was one of Mother’s maidservants, and was given her freedom in her will. You may trust her with your life. She will accompany you as far as you require, and then return to me at House Alexius.”

Dorian nodded to her, eyes a little less strained in the heavy shadows of the tunnel mouth. “Good to meet you. Thank you for doing this. Felix...”

His friend smiled sadly and clasped Dorian's hand. “As much as I wish there were time for drawn-out goodbyes, you must be off. Good luck, my friend. I hope you fare better elsewhere than in Tevinter.”

Dorian swallowed hard and sat back in the saddle, releasing him. “Take care, Felix. Maker willing, our paths will cross again.” He sat rigidly as Ariala turned the horse around. It hurt even to sit, but it was better than walking to freedom. He clutched the saddle ridge in one hand and pressed the other to his chest, holding on to Felix’s warmth for as long as he could as he rode silently into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A diagram of Dorian's lyrium brands can be found here: http://lyriumghostling.tumblr.com/post/130092694769


	2. 1.

_Hey Curly,_

_The Inquisitor asked me to write you and get your opinion. I know your heart is set on going to the Templars for help with the Breach, but here’s something that might throw a wrench in the works: the free mages here aren’t so free anymore. Grant Enchanter Fiona has signed them all over to the service of the Tevinter Imperium, specifically a Magister called Gereon Alexius. I find this particularly interesting considering Alexius’ allies within the Magisterium, namely a fellow by the name of Danarius._

_Paying attention yet? I know you know the name, even if the owner is long dead. I wasn’t there for it, sadly, but I heard about you playing the Good Samaritan after all that shit went down in Kirkwall, and Hawke told me how you and Broody sort of hit it off. Must be the history of mage-hating that sparked it. Hey, don’t frown, you know I speak only out of love._

_My point is: Danarius apparently had designs beyond one lyrium-infused angry elf, and this Alexius guy was in on it. While we were here in Redcliffe, rushing about closing rifts and performing other acts of derring-do, we ran into a fellow called Dorian. Bit of a ragamuffin, lots of beard, and a cloak saggy and patched enough to make Solas cream his vagabond-apostate smalls. Eurgh. Sorry. Bad mental image. Anyway, this Dorian is a mage, but he’s also a lyrium enchanter in the same way that Broody is a lyrium warrior. He’s full of the stuff. Apparently his own father sold the use of his body to Alexius and Danarius and whatever weird-ass Elder One they serve. Or served. (I’m hoping you read the Herald’s official report first, or else this is going to make zero sense to you)._

_So if you’ve made it this far, congratulations, and would you do me a favor? I lost track of my contacts after the Seeker so kindly up and transplanted me to Ferelden, but I know you and Hawke were close by the time you finally got your ass in gear and joined the Inquisition. If you can, write to her. I know Broody would have an interest in Dorian. Plus the kid scarpered before he could get a proper handle on his lyrium powers, and I’m sure he’d appreciate a lesson or two on forced internal organ removal. Not that he doesn’t have more than enough ways to defend himself as it is._

_Don’t worry, by the way—His Worship hasn’t made any final decisions yet, and Dorian hasn’t actually joined the Inquisition. He did promise to keep in touch, though, so I figured it would be prudent to stay one or two steps ahead of the game._

_V._

///

“Maker, Felix, it’s good to see your face.”

Felix grinned and hauled Dorian into a rough embrace. “I would say the same, but I can’t even _see_ your face. Where are you hiding it these days?”

“Shut up.” Dorian pulled away, slapping at Felix’s roving hands. “I’m in one piece, thank you, and… well. I’m well. In spite of current appearances.”

Felix peered a little closer at the man in front of him. He was just as lean as he had been a few years ago, sneaking out of the Pavus estate in the purple twilight after nearly a year in captivity. His face was shrouded by hair—beard and otherwise, all scruffy and wild—and a massive hood that fell low enough to obscure everything but his smirking mouth when he tipped his head in the right way. “I suppose this is an effort to go unrecognized, even in Ferelden? Surely you’ve been stopped more than a few times on account of looking… shifty.”

“I can look a great deal _less_ shifty when I choose.” Dorian glanced around the small Chantry alcove and threw his hood back. With a few deft movements he smoothed the unruly beard and tucked his nest of hair into a knot at the back of his head. The only thing interrupting the sleek black locks was the shock of lyrium-white slightly off-center of his hairline. “Better?”

“Hmm… slightly, I suppose.” Felix couldn’t help but examine his friend’s face. It was sharper than he remembered, but still deeply tan and smooth under the effusion of hair. The beard refused to grow where the lyrium had been laid into his flesh, but it was long and shaggy enough to cover the lower half of his face admirably. The silver-blue brands formed undeniable half-moons around his occipital bones and looped around the tops of his ears, but with the hair loose and hood pulled low they would be less remarkable.

Strangely, out of everything, it was Dorian’s eyes that drew Felix’s attention. They had been affected by the lyrium as well, even tangentially, and the grey depths seemed to glitter strangely in the half-light.

Dorian allowed the inspection for a brief while before waving his friend off. “Yes, I look like a vagabond, but that is what I am now.” He stepped away and sat on the lip of a stained-glass window, cradling his humble staff between his knees as if it were merely a walking stick. “Now tell me, what brings Alexius to Redcliffe? The Conclave happened two days’ march from here, or wasn’t he aware?”

“He was aware,” Felix said grimly. “He knew what was happening before anyone else did, though I’ve no idea how. He won’t let me in on his plans any more than necessary.”

“Which is very little at all,” Dorian guessed.

“It’s to do with the Venatori, I know that much. He said something about expecting the Inquisition in the next day or two, so I’ll see what I can find out before then. If…” He trailed off, eyes lifting to some unknown point over Dorian’s head. Dorian turned, but there was nothing there.

“Felix?”

“I… sorry. Sorry. I get… dizzy, sometimes.”

Dorian frowned. “I thought you looked a bit peaky. You’re not coming down with something, are you? Bloody inconvenient that would be, contracting a head cold just as we’re on the cusp of bringing your father’s machinations down around his ears.”

“We’re such excellent sons,” Felix quipped, but he allowed Dorian to tug him down until they sat side-by-side, the narrow pane of colored glass arching over them like a beacon. “It’s nothing, Dorian, really.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing. Doesn’t _feel_ like nothing.” Dorian slipped one hand over the back of Felix’s, noting for the first time how ashen his friend’s skin was against his own healthy russet. Running about Thedas making mischief and avoiding Tevinter cults was an excellent way to stay in shape, it turned out. “Tell me. Please.”

“It’s… the taint.”

Dorian snatched his hand back as if he’d been scalded, then changed his mind, grabbing Felix’s arm roughly. “What! When did this happen? Was it… the attack, the same one your mother…?”

“It must be. I don’t know why it took so long to… to surface. It’s coming on stronger now, though. Like it builds on itself, one block at a time, and suddenly there’s a wall in front of you that wasn’t there a week ago.”

“Your father…”

“He knows. Ostensibly, he’s searching for a cure. He says it’s what we’re doing here: looking for a mage that will know something about how to reverse it.” Felix stared at his hands, at Dorian’s fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his sleeve. “Even if it _were_ possible, it’s been… incubating in me for years, now. There’s no way to fight something off that’s already made itself at home.”

Dorian surged up from the windowsill suddenly, a blur of uncontained motion, and slammed his fist into the glass. The leaded panes quivered but held, and a ripple of blue light seemed to pass behind his eyes and down the markings on his face to disappear in his beard. “I will not accept that. There must be something we can do.” He whirled on his heel. “Grey Wardens. They are immune to the taint. They must know something that could help you.”

“Dorian, please. Leave it.”

“I will not!” He spun around, glaring at his friend, and Felix sat back a little further, shoulders to the window. The lyrium was lit up in Dorian’s skin, pushing through the beard, gleaming under layers of cotton and wool. He looked, for an instant, like a walking skeleton. Then the glow faded, and Dorian wrapped his patched cloak tightly around himself, stalking a few steps away. “I’m sorry, that was… undeserved.”

“Does that happen… often?”

“No. Not anymore.” A heavy silence followed, and Dorian sighed, sitting back down with a _fwump_ of displaced air. “It was hard to get used to. Controlling it, I mean. Any strong emotion—anger or pain or fear—and I was lit up like a beacon.” He uncurled the fingers of one hand, holding it palm out. The white lines traced the bones of his hand, centering on a single dot in the middle of his palm. As Felix watched, a glow gathered there like a tiny lightning-bug trapped beneath the skin.

Then, just as abruptly, it winked out. Dorian flipped his hood up and sat, slouching. Just in time. A moment later, a small side door creaked open on the other side of the Chantry transept.

“Father will be looking for me,” Felix murmured, watching the robed Chantry sister enter and begin her holy ablutions. “I shouldn’t be missed. Where are you…?”

“Outside the town proper, north along the shore. Fewer rifts that way.” Silver-grey eyes glinted at him from the shadow of Dorian’s hood. “Don’t think we’re done talking about the taint issue, Felix.”

Felix mustered a smile and stood, dusting himself off. “I excepted no less.”

///

_Varric,_

_First of all, I don’t believe a word you say. A few weeks under the Inquisition’s protection—yes, I’ll damn well call it that even if Cassandra did have you in a cell—would not be enough to erase your network of contacts. You are a spider, dwarf, and a clever one. But your transparent suggestion that Leliana’s people would be quicker at tracking down Hawke than your own will please her._

_Second, I was hardly close with Fenris. We interacted maybe once or twice apart from the cave-in, and that was an isolated incident. He was half-unconscious most of the time, and I can hardly relate what happened that day to you, even if you are his friend. Nor would I except him to remember—or pass on even if he did—the things I told him in turn._

_I know you were trying to protect Hawke when you told Cassandra your story. I can hardly blame you. She was put through a lot in the decade she lived in Kirkwall, and I know I played more than a small role in the burdens placed upon her. I am sorry for that. I hope that if we do find her, and if I can persuade her to lend us her aid, you will find it in you to forgive me._

_I don’t know why I’m telling you this._

_As for Dorian, I don’t know what help I would be should he choose to join the Inquisition, but I cannot deny a mage of his power would be both respected and feared within our ranks. But no decisions should be made without the input of the Herald. At the very least, we must continue to ensure he stays out of the hands of the Venatori. If what you say is true, and Danarius had a hand in this—even posthumously—I fear very much what Alexius intends to wreak upon the mages under his protection. And there, I will admit the irony of the word._

_Stay safe, Varric._

_Cullen_

///

Felix was running late. Dorian tapped his booted toe on the flagstone floor, one eye on the miasma of sickly green hovering in the center of the Chantry nave. Two days ago he’d sat very near that same spot, reuniting with his friend after so long apart. Now the entire building was deserted thanks to the rift that had opened up at its heart a few hours before. Just in time for the Inquisition.

He was trying to avoid getting to close to the rift, since proximity seemed to trigger the demons on the other side more than anything else. But in the end it didn’t matter. Whether it was his own bad luck, or the lyrium throughout his body calling forth the denizens of the Fade, there was a sudden explosion of emerald light, and all hell broke loose.

The blasted unfortunate thing was that they kept coming. He used his staff at first, a plain redwood shaft with only a small river stone at its tip to set it apart from a common walking stick. There was no need for lyrium inlay or special jewels to channel his power. In fact, as he threw blasts of fire and drew up runes of ice and sizzling electricity, the staff began to weigh him down, moving sluggishly through the air as its unwieldy shape fought against the movements of his body. His old staff, gifted him by his father at the age of twelve, had been an extension of himself, enhancing his natural inclination for fire and explosions. Now, with his body a lyrium conduit of his own, he found a staff to be less a tool and more of a hindrance.

A rage demon spat molten rock at him and he jerked back,  throwing up a shimmering barrier just in time. He would never run out of mana thanks to the lyrium, and his stamina was greatly improved, but the longer this dragged on the wearier he became. He wasn’t sure if it was the rift sapping his strength or the clumsy staff slowing him down, but he knew he couldn’t keep this up forever.

A quick jab of his staff froze the demon over temporarily, and he used the reprieve to throw the staff aside and fling back his cowl. The mana leapt eagerly to his fingertips, and a wraith drifting aimlessly across the nave fizzled out as he directed the power inside him with the force of his own hands.

Distantly he heard the doors bang open, but he still had a rage demon to finish off. He spun on one heel, cloak flaring behind him, and called forth a spike of ice. Seizing it in both hands, he lifted it over his head and brought it down hard. The frost-coated demon shrieked, steam whistling through Dorian’s beard, and it dissolved into a pile of blue-tinged coals that winked out one by one on the chantry floor.

Panting, Dorian turned, well aware of the picture he made: wild-haired and silver-eyed, brands blazing even through layers of shabby clothing, excess frost billowing from the tips of his fingers. The small group that had just entered paused in the doorway, obviously taken aback. He took the breathing time to look them over.

A qunari, a dwarf, and an elven mage—sounded like the beginning of a bad joke. Their leader in particular drew Dorian’s eye, a tall man with a hard face and one bare hand glowing a sizzling green in response to the gaping rift. _Ah, the Inquisition. Not a moment too soon._

“Oh good, you’re finally here. Now help me close this thing, would you?”

///

_Dwarf,_

_We cannot promise this Dorian character anything. We know next to nothing of his history, his purpose, or his motives, and I find myself relieved that he has not yet made an attempt to join our ranks. I will, of course, defer to the Herald’s judgement, but this entire situation makes me very uneasy. I wish I had been present to form an opinion of my own._

_His request for a Grey Warden is an odd one, but it may be fulfilled sooner than we thought. Sister Nightingale has located a potential Warden known to be recruiting in the Hinterlands near the Crossroads. Tell Lord Trevelyan that it would behoove him to seek the man out. This strange mage’s request aside, Warden Blackwall will prove useful to the Inquisition for our own purposes._

_I know Solas travelled with your party to Redcliffe. What is his opinion of this lyrium enchanter?_

_Walk in the Maker’s grace._

_Seeker Pentaghast_

///

“What news?”

Varric folded the letter loosely and handed it over to the Herald. “Letter from the Seeker. Dunno why she wrote to _me_ , of all people. I’m fairly sure she prefers even the company of the Iron Bull.”

Across the campfire, the qunari warrior grinned rakishly. “Was that meant as an insult, dwarf? Rest assured, the Seeker has about as much affection for me as she does for you. What a woman!”

Trevelyan ignored them, skimming the terse lines with a frown. “Solas, Cassandra asks that you write her regarding Dorian Pavus. She wants your opinion of him.”

“I don’t know why she didn’t ask _my_ opinion,” Varric grumbled. “I have many opinions, all of them excellent.”

“She didn’t ask your opinion because she despises you,” Solas replied mildly. “Also, because you are not a mage. Perhaps a little more of the latter than the former.”

“Thanks, Chuckles, you really know how to talk a man up.”

Trevelyan folded up the letter with a snap, cutting the conversation short. “We’ll see if we can find Blackwall tomorrow. We’re not camped far from the Crossroads. As for Dorian’s request, I hardly see that it’s so unusual. His friend is ill with the taint. No doubt he hopes to seek some sort of boon from the Grey Wardens that will heal him.”

Varric raised his eyebrows. “You got all that from a fainting fit and two minutes spent interrogating the kid about his father?”

“It’s not a difficult assumption. Dorian told us he has no wish to join the Warden ranks; he has a friend who is ill; Wardens are known to be resistant to darkspawn blood.” The Herald crouched before the fire, poking at the coals with his skinning knife. “I, for one, would be interested in learning what sort of advantage his lyrium abilities would lend the Inquisition. We won’t be receiving any of it unless we can provide some kind of good-faith gesture. The Warden is our best bet.”

“Cassandra doesn’t seem keen on him,” Solas murmured, already sketching out a reply to the Seeker’s missive. The raven that had delivered it sat perched on the elf’s shoulder as if he were nothing more than a convenient stump, looking around at them all with beady black eyes.

“The Seeker will support my decision, whatever it is. And I hardly see that we can afford to turn down an agent as powerful as Dorian may prove to be.”

The Iron Bull’s granite-like face pinched into a frown. “I don’t like it either, Boss, I don’t mind saying. A Vint _and_ a mage _and_ a walking lyrium deposit? Sounds like trouble. But then, trouble doesn’t seem to bother you much.” He shrugged. “You leaning toward the mages, then?”

Trevelyan stared into the fire. “They’re practically owned by a Tevinter Magister with confirmed ties to magical experimentation on human subjects. As a whole, they seem a volatile, unpredictable beast. I think I would prefer the order and structure of a Templar garrison to a pack of disordered apostates.”

“Sounds like you’ve made your decision already,” Varric said lightly.

“I won’t decide anything yet, not until I’ve spoken to our leaders.” The Herald stood, brushing off his trousers. “Get some sleep, everyone. We break camp at first light.”

One by one the others trailed to their tents, until only Solas was left, quill scratching evenly into the bit of paper Cassandra had enclosed for his reply. On his shoulder, the raven cocked its head and churred.

“You are a patient fellow, aren’t you.” Solas rolled the paper up tightly and affixed it to the bird’s ankle with deft fingers. “Fly swiftly then, _da’len_. Reach the ears of those that would heed my counsel.” He stood, clasping the bird to his shoulder before releasing him in a practiced motion. The messenger bird cried out once, a wavering croak that echoed forlornly in the trees, and disappeared into the dark.

///

_Curly (and Seeker, I know you’re reading this over his shoulder),_

_We found your Warden. Or Leliana’s Warden. Or whoever’s. We’re bringing him back to Haven with us. I don’t suppose that mage I mentioned has shown up, yet? We sent an Inquisition agent to Redcliffe to let him know we’d found Blackwall, but there was no sign of him. She tried getting to Felix instead, but his father has him practically under lock and key. If the boy really does have the taint, I can see why Alexius is so paranoid._

_Anyway, expect us in the next day or two. By then perhaps our mystery mage will have made an appearance. And if not, well, maybe Sister Creepy—I mean Sister Nightingale—can track him down. Trevelyan seems rather keen on his unusual markings._

_And Curly, keep your head up about what we discussed before I left. Trust the Seeker’s judgement (I know, I can’t believe I’m saying it, either). You’re stronger than you believe. Kirkwall proved that._

_Andraste be with you, Commander._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm playing a bit fast and loose with the timeline of the games, but for clarification, Dorian was branded about a year before the beginning of Act 3 of Dragon Age 2 (explaining why Danarius took so long to come after Fenris), and was on the run after that for a few years. The last year he spent solely in Ferelden.


	3. 2.

Cullen had known it couldn’t be that easy. A single burst of power from the Herald’s Mark, a force of Templars dampening the magic of the Breach, an explosion… it had fallen into place too perfectly, with too few hitches in the plan. When the flickering lights in the distance manifested into an army, bearing no sigil and flying no flag, he wasn’t surprised. Disappointed, but not surprised.

He led the rush to the walls, chivying stray townspeople into the relative safety of the village proper. Haven was no fortress, but the Chantry, at least, was sturdy, and large enough to hold those with no battle experience. The Herald arrived shortly after, Cassandra on his heels.

“What’s happening?”

“An army, Your Worship.” He barely recognized his own voice. Muscle memory had taken over, directing his body, positioning troops and trebuchets without any input required. He wasn’t Cullen, now; he was Commander Rutherford of the Inquisition, a man he was still growing accustomed to. “It’s unclear what they want, but we’ll be ready for them. As ready as we can be.”

The gates of Haven shuddered under the force of a fireball, and they all took a step back. Then, a voice: “If someone could open this I’d appreciate it!”

Trevelyan frowned. “I know that voice.”

“The mage,” Varric supplied, as if that explained anything. But the Herald was already running to the gates and slamming the bolt wide.

Directly outside, two men were barely standing. One, swathed in a homespun robe and cowl that hid his face, leant on a rough-hewn staff as if it were his last reserve of strength; the other, pale and drawn, slumped against the first, looking on the verge of collapse. “Please… a healer. My friend—he's ill.”

It was hooded man who spoke, his voice rich and surprisingly cultured for someone dressed in rags. Trevelyan gestured, and two Chantry sisters scurried forward to take the half-dead man from his friend's arms. Cullen caught a glimpse as they carried him away: dark skin made ashen by illness, and under a thick wool cloak, elegant Tevinter-style robes stained with travel. The first man straightened slightly with the absence of his burden and took a few staggering steps forward.

“I've come to warn you. The army, behind me… they are the rebel mages from Redcliffe, and they are led by a woman named Calpernia. She serves the Venatori… and the Elder One." He gestured behind him, a sweeping motion of his arm that drew a direct line to the flickering torches crawling like ants down the mountain pass. If Cullen strained his eyes he could just make out two figures perched high above the main bulk of the army, a slender woman who glowed in the moonlight and, at her side, something out of a nightmare.

“What do they want?” he found himself asking, more harshly than he'd intended.

The man turned his head, and the edge of his hood lifted just enough to reveal a ragged beard and the glint of silver eyes. “They've come for your Herald.”

“You ran all this way? Maker's blessed backside, mage, you're even crazier than you look.” Varric's astonishment was nonetheless punctuated with respect, and it coaxed a velvety chuckle from the ragtag newcomer.

“I'm sorry for the delay—fashionably late, I'm afraid. I couldn't leave Felix behind..." His voice went faint, and suddenly he began to pitch forward. Cullen sprang into action, unthinking, and the man crumpled into his arms.

 _Maker's_ _breath…_

A blaze of energy flared through Cullen at the full-body contact, every muscle seizing to a standstill. It wasn't quite like an adrenaline rush—it was deeper than that, slower, like the tidal swell of the ocean, or stepping into a hot bath after a long day in the field. He stared down at the heavy weight in his arms, feeling peculiarly removed from his own body. The cowl had slipped to the side, and beneath its edge he could just make out coffee-colored skin and a shocking flare of pearly white blazing a bath down one cheek. Lyrium.

The man staggered upright, pushing away from Cullen’s body with a hand to the center of his chest, and time restarted. What had seemed like long minutes had in reality only been seconds; he blinked rapidly, feeling off-balance without the stranger’s weight in his arms.

“Who are you?” Cassandra asked when it became apparent that Cullen was having trouble forming words. “Or… _what_ are you?”

“Their greatest weapon,” the stranger said with an eerie grin that was echoed by the path of the silver brands emblazoned over his skull. “And their greatest loss. My name is Dorian Pavus, Inquisition, and I am at your disposal.”

* * *

 

In the musty vacuum of the Chantry, where the slightest sound was swallowed up by the vaulted ceiling and hay-littered corners, the rush of people scrambling to safety was deafening. Cullen slammed the double doors with his shoulder just behind Chancellor Roderick, grunting with satisfaction at the reverberating boom. Even dragonfire would take time to eat through solid aged oak.

He turned to lend a hand to the Chancellor, but realized he already had a savior: Dorian, who was bearing him up with aplomb considering the man was bleeding out all over his robes.

“Brave man,” the mage remarked to the Chantry at large—Trevelyan, Cassandra, Varric, and Solas clustered loosely near the Chantry entrance, still breathless from their narrow escape. “Faced down a Venatori.”

“Briefly,” the Chancellor quipped. He was pale and bloodless, though red was smeared at the corner of his mouth. “I am no Templar.”

“Of course he finds his sense of humor _now_ ,” Varric muttered.

Cullen turned away as Dorian assisted the dying Chancellor to a quiet corner, focusing on Trevelyan. “Herald, our position is… not good.” Understatement. He briefly outlined the situation, trying to keep his chin up, but he couldn’t lie to the man. The Herald knew as well as Cullen what the outcome would be, unless the Maker saw fit to send them a miracle.

“There will be no bargaining with the mages,” Dorian interrupted. He was crouched near Chancellor Roderick, still cloaked and hooded, but he spoke with clarity and authority that rankled Cullen’s pride. “This Elder One takes what it wants.”

Trevelyan folded his arms. “And you have no idea what that might be.”

A shrug, expressive even under layers of bloodstained wool. “You. Or, perhaps more to the point, that Mark on your hand.”

“I’d cut the bloody thing off if I thought it would make any difference.”

“Ha! I like the way you think.” He was smirking under his beard, just a sliver of silver-edged lips visible beneath the shadowy cowl. “If only trebuchets remained an option. We could fling your hand at him like some sort of peace offering.”

An idea had been flirting with the edges of Cullen’s mind when the Herald first mentioned amputating his Marked hand, and now it was unraveling into some semblance of a plan. “But they are. The trebuchets.”

Varric raised an eyebrow. “You’re seriously considering taking his arm off? Low blow, Curly.”

“Of course not.” He ignored the nickname. “If we aim the trebuchets at the mountains above us…”

“We’re overrun,” Trevelyan interjected. “To hit the enemy, we’d bury Haven.”

Cullen stared him down, feeling focused, as if every step he’d taken tonight, perhaps in his entire life, had led irrevocably to this moment, to these words. “This is not survivable.” The Herald didn’t so much as flinch. His eyes were iron-hard. He knew the cost, and he was willing and able to pay it. “The only choice left to us is how we end it.”

“Well, that’s not acceptable.” Dorian was on his feet, stalking toward them, cloak flaring around his ankles. “I didn’t drag myself here with Felix on my back only for you to drop rocks on our heads!” His chin reared up just a little, just enough for the firelight to catch beneath the cowl. For a split second, the ghostly outline of a skull looked back.

“So we should submit,” Cullen snapped. Fear choked him, made him lash out: “let them kill us?”

“Dying is typically a _last_ resort, not first!” The mage was a step away from colliding with him, nostrils flared and silver eyes blazing unnaturally; it took years of training not to give way to the onslaught of lyrium rolling over Cullen’s frantic mind. “For a Templar, you think like a blood mage!”

“There is a path,” Chancellor Roderick was saying, but his words barely penetrated through the blood roaring in Cullen’s ears. He bared his teeth in a scowl and the mage snapped back, teeth clacking together in a macabre grin. _Death mage_ , Cullen’s Templar instincts screamed. _Necromancer. Maleficar_. The hatred was conditioned, taught over many years, and for all the progress he’d made at undoing it, this man was severely testing his last nerve.

“What about it, Commander?” The Herald’s words snapped him out of his anger like a whiplash. “Can you get them out?”

“If he shows us the way,” Cullen said grudgingly. “But what of your escape?”

Silence. Trevelyan’s expression was stoic as he turned away, ignoring Cullen’s halting attempts at comfort, and summoned his companions with a flick of his Marked hand. Heart sinking, Cullen shook off rage and spite and despair, and gathered the people of Haven for one last march.

///

_Cullen,_

_I’ve heard the stories. The Herald of Andraste with his Mark, the only man who can save Thedas from this great swirling pit high above our heads. From where we are in the Reach, it seems so far away. But I think of you, perched right under its hungry maw, and I grow so frightened. It’s unfair that you should finally be in Ferelden again, only to step right back into danger of your own free will._

_I wish you had stayed longer at Michel’s nameday. Selfish, I know. The Inquisition is bigger than one small boy, bigger than one small family. But I still hope you think of us, in the middle of your important duties. We’re all so proud of you, brother. You’ve come so far from little Honnleath, a farm boy with no future but the one laid out for him by his parents and grandparents and great-grandparents. I’m happy and proud to work the land, but I know now it would be no life for you. You were always too adventurous to bother with planting and ploughing and crop cycles._

_One piece of good news in the midst of all this chaos: Riordan and I have a child on the way. I pray that he, or she, lasts longer than the others. The village midwife tells me that if I make it to six months, I have a better chance of delivering safely. Still, we haven’t told Michel or Petunia. Best not to get their hopes up, just in case. Call me cynical, but I’m tampering my joy as best I can. We’ve lost too many over the years for me to feel safe in my happiness._

_I pray each day for your safety, brother, as I know you pray for mine. All our thoughts are with you. Be well, and may the Maker watch over you kindly._

_Mia_

///

Cullen found him as he was leaving the healer’s tents, drooping and weary, his robes soaked in the blood of Chancellor Roderick. He took one look at Cullen’s face and sighed caustically. “Very well, let’s have it out, then. Lead the way.”

Taken aback, Cullen nonetheless turned and led him back to his tent. It was small but private, a welcome luxury in the overcrowded camp. He brushed a hand over the map spread on the pitted surface of the rickety campaign table, waiting as Dorian shuffled in and let the tent flap drop shut behind him.

“All right. You have questions.”

 _What was done to you?_ Cullen wanted to ask, but didn’t. _How is it possible? Why does the lyrium in your skin make me feel as if every care in the world has fled?_ Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “Your arrival was… timely.”

“I’d hardly call it that. A few more hours’ notice would have been welcome, I’m sure.”

“Even so. You risked your life—and your friend’s life—to reach us before Corypheus. And I repaid you with anger and blame.” He was too tired to be proud, and the admission rolled easily off his tongue.

Dorian’s surprise was a crackle of static in the air between them. “You’re… apologizing? To _me_?”

“I don’t see anyone else here who was wronged by me, do you?”

“Wronged by… Divine’s balls, man, you had no reason whatsoever to trust me. I can’t blame you for that.” He folded his arms, staring Cullen down from under his hood. “You’re the guilty sort. I can tell. That dour face… you pick your own faults apart more than you poke at others’, don’t you?”

Cullen scowled. “That’s hardly any of your business. I asked you here to hear my apologies, and you have. Feel free to leave.” He sat down and stared at the map firmly, hoping the mage would take him at his word. Instead, Dorian drew closer, one hand coming to rest on the edge of the table. There was blood under his nails and in the creases of his knuckles, but he was careful not to leave smudges on the map’s smooth parchment.

“Forgive me. That was uncalled-for.”

“Nothing to forgive,” Cullen grunted. He scanned the faded ink, delineating mountains and rivers, marking the main roads and byways of western Ferelden. The Frostbacks were frustratingly blank of detail. _Maker guide our steps. We’ve come this far…_

“I thought you’d have more to say. About… this.”

Under layers of blood and grime, lyrium lit up on Dorian’s hand. Cullen jerked back as if burned. This close, even without physical contact, the activated brands sang a sweet song that thrilled the blood in his veins and stole away the stress pounding in the back of his skull. “Don’t.”

The silver glow winked out again. The headache returned full-force.

“What are you?” Cullen asked, deciding to take advantage of his ongoing presence. “Your answer to Cassandra was… flippant.”

“Flippant? I often am. But I wasn’t lying.” There were no other chairs, but Dorian seemed content to stand, one hip braced on the table’s edge. “I’m here to help, however I can.”

“Why? You’re powerful, incredibly so.” Cullen indicated his tattooed hand. “I doubt you’ll ever need to drink another lyrium potion in your life. With the Inquisition you will be feared, perhaps hated, for your abilities and for your… lineage. Among the Venatori, you would have been revered.”

“I hold no love for the Venatori. _They_ did this to me.” A smooth gesture, revealing a flash of lyrium-lined wrist. “I am powerful, yes, but the process was long and excruciating. I would not undergo it again for all the beautiful men in Thedas." The mage dropped a wink so arresting that it took a moment for Cullen to register what he’d heard.

“I—ah—oh,” he stammered, and flushed crimson.

“You forgot ‘ee’ and ‘you’,” Dorian quipped. “We are listing the vowels, are we not?”

“That’s not what I expected you to say,” said Cullen, ignoring the mocking edge to his voice.

“What? The suggestion that I am more tempted by the wiles of men than of women?”

“No! The, erm, the other part. That it was… painful.”

The little knowing smirk melted into thin air, leaving an icy veneer in its wake. “I have heard that, for other… victims… the process was painful enough to wipe all recollection of their previous lives,” Dorian said in a stilted way, as if the words were rehearsed. “My captors took a little more care with me. Mages are revered in Tevinter, you see, and they couldn’t take the chance that I would lose all of my knowledge of magic and ancient lore.”

His voice was growing stiffer and more removed with every word, and Cullen was starting to regret prying. “You don’t have to—”

“The process took a year,” Dorian interrupted. He stripped off his gauntlets one at a time and began working at the laces of his bloodstained overrobe. The brands glowed faintly in the low light of the oil lamp as they were revealed, layer by layer. “It might have taken longer, actually, but I was able to escape before they could do any more damage.”

The robe dropped to the ground and he unclasped the frontispiece of his tunic, all the way down to his belt buckle. He shrugged it off his shoulders, letting it catch around his waist, and yanked his shirt over his head. It was possibly the least erotic thing Cullen had ever seen, and yet he was still breathless—with horror, with grief, with sympathy? The Maker only knew. His eyes ran over Dorian’s bared torso, following the lyrium that traced the contours of bone under flesh, gruesome and yet somehow not without grace.

Dorian let his hands fall to his sides, fists clenched. “They broke my body up into pieces and laid the lyrium in one section at a time, leaving a month of healing in between each session. During those in-between months I was mostly asleep, fed some kind of potion that left me weak and unable to resist them. My face was the last piece of the puzzle.”

With shaking hands, Dorian pulled his unruly hair tight to his skull, showing off the ghastly brands that were carved into his face. In that moment he looked nearly cadaverous, and Cullen had to fight the urge to lean back in his chair.

“Horrifying, isn’t it,” he said flatly. “My father’s last gift to me.”

“It is…” Cullen didn’t feel like _beautiful_ was an honest enough word. “Striking. I would call it a work of art, but the subject…” He shook his head and turned away to give Dorian privacy. But even with the mage out of his line of sight, he could _feel_ the man’s presence, his energy. The lyrium in his skin called to him, a sweet and subtle song that tugged at his gut and painted a clear picture of the mage in his mind’s eye. A picture that included a distinct lack of clothing. He dug his fingers into his palms. “I am sorry this happened to you, Dorian. It was monstrous of your father to allow it.”

Dorian gave a little exhale. “I… thank you.” There came the sounds of cloth being righted and buckles snapped back into place. When Cullen deemed it safe, he turned around to find Dorian standing awkwardly in the middle of the tent, shirt and tunic righted with the bloodied robes over one arm. “I suppose I didn’t expect that from you, of all people.”

“Of all people?”

Dorian gestured briefly with his free hand. “A Templar. Or ex-Templar, if you like. You southern types are infamous for your dehumanization of mages, and yet you… you turned away as if I were deserving of privacy, not a _thing_ to be gawked at.”

Cullen’s chest was cold, blurring every word but the one that mattered: _ex-Templar_. “How did you know? It was supposed to be a secret—I didn’t…”

“Oh, that. Excuse my bluntness, Commander, but I am a walking repository of lyrium as well as a mage. I am incredibly sensitive to the stuff, and I can practically taste the need for it on you. The longing is… very strong.” He frowned. “It’s painful for you. If I may ask: why?”

Cullen’s jaw was clenched so tight he could almost hear his teeth creaking. “I suppose I owe you an explanation, after…”

“Of course you don’t. What I revealed to you was my own choice.” Dorian’s voice was firm, and his gaze, when Cullen finally gathered the courage to meet it, was unflinching. “You owe me nothing.”

Gradually, the tightness in Cullen’s chest unwound. “Very well. Thank you. Suffice to say, I realized I was not the man I wanted to be, and I decided to take steps to rectify that.”

“An admirable reason to do anything,” Dorian said quietly. He wasn’t quite smiling, but there was respect in his gaze as he held out a hand. When Cullen took it, the same overwhelming warmth from before washed through him. He bit back a sigh of relief at the sensation.

“Your robes are a lost cause,” he said, letting go of Dorian’s hand reluctantly. “I’m sure we can find you a spare somewhere.”

“I… thank you.” Dorian nodded once, sharply. “I would appreciate it.”

When he left Cullen’s tent a short while later, freshly attired—ironically enough—in a Templar’s spare surcoat, he left behind a trace of calm that settled in Cullen’s bones and lingered where the aches of lyrium withdrawal usually stalked him. He sat back down and stared into the flame of the lamp. It was very low, burning the last dregs of oil, and died easily when he blew against the wick. He sighed and slumped against the desk in the dark. Tomorrow was another day.

///

_Mia,_

_Skyhold is magnificent. I wish you could see it. I tried to do a sketch in the margin, but it isn’t very good. Maybe I’ll ask our resident artist—an elven apostate who seems obsessed with restoring the old frescos here—to do a little drawing and I’ll enclose it with this letter._

_How are you? I was glad to hear that Michel is reading on his own, now. He was always a bright boy. I hope you’ll send me evidence of his writing skills as they improve. Tell him his Uncle Cullen wants to hear all about the mabari puppies, and how he’s teaching his little sister how to swim._

_I’m sorry, I know you wanted to hear about me. There’s much to tell, but you know I’ve always been bad at talking about myself. The excitement is over now anyhow, at least for the moment. The past week has been a race to get the Inquisition established here, shoring up old walls, replacing support beams, patching roofs, and the like. Riveting stuff. We have no idea how long we have until our enemy returns in force, and so every last pair of hands is being pressed into service to restore Skyhold to its former glory. Even my own. But I like the work—it’s good, honest labor, and it’s good for the recruits and the soldiers to see their commanding officers bending their backs like the rest of them._

_I know I hinted at this in my last letter, but now I feel I should confirm it: I’ve stopped taking lyrium. It was a gradual process, at first, but I took my last quarter-vial two months ago. It’s been difficult, but not impossible. There are people here who support me, and the work keeps me too busy most of the time to notice the symptoms. ~~Should I become incapable of carrying out my~~ There are occasional headaches, but those are manageable. _

_There is another apostate here, a Tevinter refugee, who ~~must have been sent by the Maker to ease~~ has been helpful in that regard. ~~In a barbaric practice I can hardly fathom happening in Ferelden~~ He has tattoos made from lyrium, a most unusual and intriguing practice, and being near him is soothing without agitating the addiction. I suppose we have become friends, of sorts. We play chess when time allows, and his ~~wit~~ conversation keeps my mind off the headaches ~~that plague me incessantly~~. _

_He is relentlessly clever, and has devoted himself to research while not accompanying the Inquisitor. His primary focus right now is finding a cure for the Blight, which afflicts his childhood friend—Felix is also with us, although he spends much of his time in the infirmary—but occasionally he (Dorian) ~~bursts into my office~~ pays me a visit to drop off some new tidbit of lyrium lore he’d unearthed. He believes there may be a way to safely wean Templars off the stuff. I suppose I’m something of a ~~fascination~~ pet project to him. ~~He fascinates me, too.~~_

_I’ll write more when I am able. Please give your little ones my love, and write me as soon as your newest arrives._

_All my love,_

_Cullen_

///

Skyhold’s infirmary was small but well-equipped. A week after the Inquisition descended upon it, it was clear of all but the most pressing cases, and at this time of the afternoon it was a quiet sanctuary, broken only by the occasional cough or rustle of sheets. Dorian wrinkled his nose against the pungent smell of elfroot and, beneath, the coppery tang of illness, and let the door fall shut behind him.

“Dorian?”

The voice was weak, but still familiar. Dorian forced a smile and went to the far end of the room where Felix lay in a bed drenched with sunlight and piled with blankets. He shivered slightly even still, skin pale and sallow, lips tinged blue with cold. He was declining rapidly.

“You’re looking well,” Dorian said as he settled himself at his friend’s bedside.

Felix snorted. “You’re a terrible liar, Dorian. I know what I look like.”

“Really? Seen a mirror lately?”

Felix glared, but the bruises around his eyes made it a hollow threat. “I hardly need one. I feel like shite.”

“Yes, well, I was being polite.” Dorian chewed his lower lip, looking him over. His thin fingers plucked fruitlessly at the edge of the topmost blanket, and when Dorian pulled it up snugly around his chin he smiled weakly.

“Thanks. Bit demeaning, this. I’d rather go out with a bang and a flash, a bit of style. This wasting away doesn’t suit me.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s rather dashing. There’s something to be said for the helpless invalid trope.”

“Hmm.” Felix smiled wanly from the pillow. “How are you settling in?”

“Well enough. I’ve staked out a corner in the library for myself. It’s a bit of a wreck, still, but Solas and I have been attempting to catalogue it.”

“Solas?”

“Ah—an elven apostate working for the Inquisition. Frighteningly intelligent, but he’s so soft-spoken you wouldn’t know it to look at him. He’s told me I would make an excellent addition to the small parties the Inquisitor takes out on his trips hither and yon, but I told him I’d prefer to remain in Skyhold for now.”

“Because of me,” Felix said flatly. “Dorian, you should go. Your talents are wasted cataloguing books and babysitting me.”

“I’m doing important work here,” Dorian snapped. “Besides, my research talents are unparalleled.”

“You mean you’d prefer to sit in the dust and dark rather than go adventuring, showing off your skills to all and sundry?”

“Yes! In fact, that’s exactly the case. I am very close to some important breakthroughs, I couldn’t possibly leave now. And if they want flash and dazzle, they have Madame de Fer. I’m not that man anymore, Felix.”

Felix regarded him sadly, eyes dark and sunken in his wasted face. “You could be. I know you could.”

“Well maybe I don’t want to be.” Dorian hissed out a breath through his nose and looked away. “I’m not debating this with you. I will remain in Skyhold until you’re well again.”

“Dorian…”

“No. I’ve said my piece. I can serve the Inquisition well enough from here without dragging myself all over Thedas at the beck and call of some Marcher second son. I’ve had enough of travelling over the past years, thank you.”

Felix swallowed loudly in the sudden silence. Then he reached out, hand trembling, and touched Dorian’s knee. The weight of it was birdlike in its delicacy, and yet so terribly heavy. “I’m sorry. Of course you can do what you like. I only…”

Dorian’s mouth wavered, and he put his hand over Felix’s. “I had to leave you once, and look where it got you. Don’t ask me to do it again.”

“I don’t want you to waste your life, Dorian. Waiting for me to… waiting for a miracle. You’ve been running for so long.” He paused to catch his breath. “Even standing still, you’re still running. I’m always trying to look over your shoulder, but you’re too quick for me.”

“Just like old times, then,” Dorian joked, but it fell flat. He squeezed Felix’s hand gently. “I am where I need to be, Felix. For the first time in a long time. If and when that changes, you’ll be the first to know.”

///

The training yard was deceptively quiet as the two warriors circled each other, practice swords in hand. Cullen hefted his wooden shield closer to his body, eyes on the Bull’s torso. He was going to regret taking this bet, he knew it.

“Don’t hold back, boss!” Krem shouted from where he sat on the rail at the circle’s edge. Maryden was perched at his side, and she gave a cheer for Cullen that was echoed by the recruits that had gathered to watch the bout.

Iron Bull chuckled. “Sounds like you have fans, Commander. Hopefully they won’t be too disappointed when I crush your pasty Fereldan ass into the dirt.”

“Not so loud, Bull, I think Madame de Fer is nearby,” Cullen called back, to raucous laughter.

The qunari didn’t fall for the bait, however; his single eye bored directly into Cullen, waiting for him to make his move. “I think she’ll forgive me this once.”

Cullen was a patient man, but he could take only so much posturing. Aiming his shield high to avoid the Bull’s tremendous iron broadsword, he darted in low and struck at his blind side. The qunari pivoted, anticipating the attack, and Cullen let himself be thrown back, catching the brunt of the blow with his shield. He danced forward again almost immediately, smacking Bull on the forearm with the flat of his blade. “Watch your blind side! You leave yourself open, qunari.”

“You’re quick, human,” came the grudging reply. The Bull lunged, bringing his broadsword down hard, and Cullen felt the shield crack above his head. The force of the blow reverberated down his arm and into his hand, and he pulled back, discarding the splintered shield entirely. “And bolder than you look.”

Cullen barked a laugh, both hands on the hilt of his sword. “Is that an insult?”

“Of course not. It’s a testament to your skill at appearing nonthreatening.” _Whoosh._ Cullen rolled, moving easily in the medium-weight leathers he’d donned for the demonstration. “Still, you can pick up a fresh shield if you like.”

“Why bother? You’ll only break that one, too.”

“Better than breaking your head open, Commander.” The Bull sidestepped Cullen’s lunge, but didn’t recover quickly enough to avoid a jab to his belly. He grunted at the impact and retaliated, catching Cullen in the shoulder before he could withdraw. Pain crawled up his arm, but he shook it out and advanced again. He was at a disadvantage without the shield, perhaps, but he could move faster this way.

A tug at the back of his mind distracted him for a split second, and he barely avoided the sweep of Bull’s blade by jumping over it. Someone let out a cheer—Scout Harding, perhaps—and he darted back toward the edge of the ring.

The Bull followed. He was a blur of movement, faster than Cullen had believed possible, and in the split second of hesitation he was caught up and thrown across the ring to land on his back in the dirt. Breath whooshed out of his lungs and black spots danced in front of his eyes, but he forced himself up, rolling over as the blunted broadsword slammed into the earth where his head had been. Then again, onto his back, and up on his feet, the flat of his blade turned to deflect the next blow.

The broadsword came down, and there was a sickening _crack_ as it plowed through Cullen’s flimsier longsword. He jumped back just in time to avoid being split down the middle—a painful experience normally, but even more so with the blunted edge of a practice blade. The Bull yanked back at the same time, single eye flared wide. “All right, Commander?”

Someone had already thrown him a greatsword, heavier than the weapon now lying in two at his feet. He gave it an experimental spin and nodded. “Never better.”

The tug came again, a prickle under the skin, like the first whiff of lyrium after a long stretch without. Dorian was nearby. Cullen scowled at the distraction and burst into a flurry of movement, forcing Bull into a melee-style duel with speed and close-contact. The qunari shoved him off with a growl, and he pushed back, calling on a deep reserve of strength he’d almost forgotten he had. Bull stumbled back under the onslaught and Cullen advanced, striking again and again. He knew he was showing off, just a bit—but it had been ages since he’d had a proper one-on-one, and why shouldn’t people see just what he could do? He danced back, out of the way of Bull’s long reach, and _rushed_ forward, stepping into a charging bull formation.

His feet had never moved so swiftly. He felt buoyant, lighter than air, as if the winds of the Maker Himself had carried him across the ring and under Bull’s guard. He pivoted, throwing off a pommel strike, and brought his blade around with a last burst of righteous energy.

A veritable explosion ignited as the length of his sword met Bull’s. The qunari rocked back, nearly thrown off his feet, and Cullen was tossed a handful of feet into the air, arms pinwheeling as he fought to land feet-first. He managed, barely—legs akimbo, one arm thrown wide and the other holding his sword up almost as an afterthought. The dull iron was smoking, the hilt hot to the touch. When he looked to Bull, the qunari’s horns were limned in frost, and his broadsword was nothing more than a shattered hilt in one enormous hand.

“Fuck!” He dropped his sword as the heat crawled through the leather-wrapped hilt, and it clattered harmlessly into the dust. “What in the Maker’s name…?”

The practice yard was rife with whispers. Slowly, Bull released the remains of his sword, staring at Cullen with something akin to fear. “That was no Templar trick.”

“It most certainly was not.” Cassandra’s clipped tones were a welcome respite from the incredulity rising in him, and he turned to face her with open palms. She had hopped the fence and was striding toward him, hand on the hilt of her own blade. “What was that, Commander?”

“I have no idea.” He stared at his own hands in bewilderment. “I’ve never…” That tug again, like a string tied to his spine pulling him in the opposite direction. He turned, following its lead, and saw Dorian standing at the edge of the ring, hood pulled low—but not low enough to hide the gleam of lyrium snaking brilliantly over his face and into his beard. “You!”

Cassandra caught his arm, close enough to growl into his ear: “Not. Here.” She tugged and he followed, past Bull with a muttered apology and through the ranks of spectators, all of them scattering as they passed. Dorian materialized beside them without being summoned, but Cassandra didn’t stop until they had reached the quiet solitude of the armory. Bull came in close behind them and shut the door with one shoulder, leaning against it after.

“Care to explain, Cullen?” he asked.

“I have no idea what that was. It felt like—like lyrium, but…” He turned, free of Cassandra’s death-grip, and moved into Dorian’s space. “It was you. I could feel your lyrium tugging at me, distracting me from the bout, but then…”

“But you haven’t been taking lyrium,” Cassandra interjected, ignoring Cullen’s warning stare.

“Really?” The Iron Bull perked up. “I didn’t know that was possible.”

“It’s… high discouraged,” Cullen admitted at last, defeated. So much for secrecy. And in front of a Ben-Hassrath agent, no less. “The effects of lyrium are incredibly debilitating, long-term, but going off it once you’re hooked can be just as bad. No one has ever managed it before.”

“That does not mean it cannot be done,” Cassandra bit out. “But if you aren’t taking it, then how did Dorian’s lyrium affect you so?”

“It’s still there,” Dorian spoke up quietly. “I can feel it—I felt it that first night we spent in the Frostbacks, remember? Just a little tickle. Your system is expelling it, but it’s a slow process.”

Bull grunted. “So you still have a few Templar tricks could employ, if you chose. That doesn’t explain why the Vint’s markings could let you do… _that_.”

“Don’t look at me—this _Vint_ understands just about as well as you do, qunari.”

“Please,” Cullen said wearily as Bull took a menacing step in Dorian’s direction. “Don’t. Try and remember that you’re _both_ Inquisition now, regardless of your peoples’ personal history.” He turned to Cassandra. “I don’t understand it, but it doesn’t matter—it’s unlikely I’ll be in the field again any time soon, and in the meantime I can adjust, prepare myself to resist the… the call, or whatever it is.”

“Resist?” Cassandra’s brows marched up toward her hairline, incredulous. “Cullen, you were _there_ , you saw what happened to Bull’s sword. You nearly knocked him off his feet. Imagine what kind of combat techniques you could employ were you properly trained.”

“Hey! He almost fell on his ass too, you know,” Bull put in, but he was ignored.

“You’re saying I should… _exploit_ this?” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “This is something none of us understands. I nearly blew up the training ring!”

“So we know the dangers. We know you must take great care. But think, Cullen—the Venatori were going to use Dorian for _some_ purpose. What if we’ve stumbled on it entirely by accident?”

“An army of mage-templar partners wreaking havoc on Thedas?” Dorian mused. “It sounds a bit… free-thinking. But not entirely outside the realm of possibility.”

“It might almost be worth taking lyrium for an edge like that,” joked Bull.

Dorian’s eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t negate the fact that lyrium branding is intensely painful, and takes a very long time. Such a partnership could be powerful, but it’s a long-term investment. I was the first mage to be experimented on successfully, and there are only a few who are capable of performing the necessary ritual. The Venatori can’t have made more than a handful since then.”

“They wouldn’t need much more than that. With the powers you might develop together…” Cassandra trailed off, shaking her head. “We cannot be caught unawares. Even if Cullen is not regularly in the field, the Inquisition must learn more about this… bond. Partnership. Whatever you prefer to call it. Dorian, I know the Inquisitor often requests that you accompany him, but while you are in Skyhold, I would encourage you to research this phenomenon as much as you can.”

Dorian nodded, almost bowing in the Seeker’s direction. “As you say, Lady Pentaghast.”

Her nose wrinkled briefly at the epithet, but she turned to Cullen without telling him off. “Your duties as Commander must come first, of course, but I am willing to take on additional tasks if it means you can pursue this line of inquiry with more dedication. And Bull—I expect your discretion, and nothing more.”

“Of course, Madam Seeker.”

“Good. Dismissed, then. I will deflect the interest for now, but we should not hide this from the rest of the Inquisition—and certainly not from Lord Trevelyan. When he returns from the Storm Coast, we should call a war council to discuss these developments.”

Cullen watched her go with a sinking heart, Bull close on her heels. His hands were still shaking with excess adrenaline, and the sweat he’d worked up during the bout was cooling unpleasantly beneath his leathers.

“Well! This is _most_ exciting.” Dorian was grinning like a boy let loose in a candy shop, all but rocking on his heels. “I have half a dozen theories already.”

“Yes. Very exciting.” Cullen stared at his hands absently, wondering if he’d hallucinated the entire thing.

And just like that, the nudge came again: a soft touch in his head, slippery and hard to grasp, like a memory that wouldn’t quite form. He reached out tentatively with his mind, sliding easily back into Templar training as he found the thread of lyrium in his body and traced its edge to the mage that stood half a room away.

“How is this possible?” he whispered. A dark hand clamped down on his shoulder, jerking him back into the real world.

“That’s what we’re going to find out.”

The mage dragged him bodily from the armory and Cullen had no choice but to follow. Dorian was talking a mile a minute, mostly under his breath, but he caught snatches of words as they strode past the training grounds, up the stairs to the main keep, and through Solas’ rotunda without stopping. _Lyrium_ featured prominently, and _addiction, withdrawal, particles,_ and others that passed before Cullen’s tired brain without really registering.

The they were in the library, or the remains of one. It was in the midst of an overhaul, intended for use by the Inquisition, but it was still in shambles, books piled every which way and the windows so layered with the dust of centuries that daylight barely touched the aged shelves. Someone—probably Dorian—had confiscated a cozy velvet-upholstered chair and situated it in a small alcove. Cullen made for it like a moth drawn to flame and lowered himself stiffly, too bone-weary to care about the sweat and dirt he would surely leave behind.

Dorian was still going. Something about genetic traits and the Fade. Cullen summoned up a modicum of strength and interrupted with a firm but quiet, “I don't understand.”

Dorian huffed and spun on his heel, moth-eaten robes flaring dramatically behind him. Cullen hid a smirk behind one gauntleted hand. This man was made for the stage. Even attired so drably, lecturing on something Cullen barely understood, he lit up the dusty library like a beacon with wild gestures and a smooth, honeyed voice: "The scholars of the Imperium discovered centuries ago that the potential for magical ability is hereditary, which means it must be related somehow to the physical body. You don't pass on personality through the womb, or verbal tics, or a sense of humor; those things are _learned_ , passed on parent to child after birth. Magic isn't like that. You can't teach it to someone who has no predisposition for it.”

He paused in his tirade to glare at Cullen, clearly doubting his ability to keep up. Maker help him, but the man was a force of nature. Cullen affixed a politely nondescript expression on his face and nodded for him to continue.

“During my time studying under Alexius,” Dorian went on, “we discovered that mages have channels under the skin that allow their mana to flow through them, a slightly different path for each person. Alexius theorized that this distinction is what allows for varying schools of magic, although we had not yet been able to prove it when… when my father began the process.” He spread his arms to indicate his own body. “I do not know if they choose the pattern of a skeleton in order to follow my mana channels, or out of some twisted sense of humor...”

“Your strength is necromancy,” Cullen supplied, and very nearly avoided shuddering in distaste.

“And fire,” Dorian agreed. “But never mind that. The point is that mana is the power of the Fade physically manifested in human form, and the lyrium in my skin provides a nearly limitless well of power on which I can draw… and on which _you_ can draw as well, it appears.”

“Or any Templar, yes?”

Dorian grimaced, seeming a bit aggrieved at the notion. “No. Lyrium is… alive, somehow. Varric’s contacts in the dwarf underworld unearthed that little gem. Don’t smirk, my puns are _impeccable_.”

“Sorry.” Cullen covered his mouth as if to wipe the expression away. “You’re saying your lyrium has an interest in me, specifically?”

“In layman’s terms, yes,” Dorian sniffed. “Or rather, the lyrium in my body has formed a sort of bond with the trace lyrium in _your_ body. Why you and not a _real_ Templar, I have no idea. Perhaps the way your system is breaking down the mineral is somehow mimicking the symbiosis between…”

Cullen cleared his throat before Dorian could descend too far into his own head. “Is there anything I can do to help you? In your research, I mean.”

“Ha!” An uncomfortable pause. “Oh, you were being serious. While I appreciate the offer, Commander, we are both aware that you are a man of action. This sort of dusty work is best suited to those with an affinity for such pursuits.”

“I do know how to read, you know,” Cullen said drily, not quite sure whether to be insulted or not. “I can write as well, though that may surprise you.”

“It’s not that I’m doubting your intelligence!” Dorian hasted to explain. “I only mean to say that, well, delegation is the foundation of any good organization. I’m a mage, with a wealth of experience in the subject at hand, and I am accustomed to trawling through hundreds of thousands of words in a matter of hours, combing for the finest trace of knowledge to be gleaned from the text. You are a military Commander, and good at… uh… commanding. Therefore, it behooves us to stick to what we know, yes?”

Cullen wanted to argue—the man certainly had a way with words, not all of them flattering—but he knew that, to some extent, he was right. Cullen’s expertise lay in logistics and troop movements, and, at the very core of himself, the weight of a sword in his hand and a shield on his arm. The depth of research that Dorian was embarking on was a little out of his field.

“Very well,” he sighed, still feeling somewhat off-balance from Dorian’s impassioned tirade. “It’s not as if I don’t have enough work to do already. But if you do require anything, you know where to find me.”

The mage had been expecting more of a fight, clearly. He frowned, showing a sliver of something—disappointment? Regret?—but Cullen was already turning away. The baths were calling his name. “Ah, yes, of course. Thank you for your time, Commander. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of one another.”

Cullen smiled to himself as he strode toward the staircase, calling over his shoulder: “I’m certain we shall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find kickingshoes' FABULOUS accompanying artwork in this chapter! I'll post a link to it on tumblr as soon as possible. Many thanks to them both for bringing the boys to life so wonderfully. <3


	4. 3.

_Quartermaster,_

_See below a list of books required for the Inquisition’s growing library. In the event that the Circles in Tevinter are reticent to hand them over, seek out comparable titles held by the Montsimmard Circle in Orlais—speak with Enchantress Vivienne to obtain permission for these texts. To cover any difficulties in filling this requisition, find attached a cheque from Lady Montilyet detailing the amount of funds the Inquisition can provide in this effort. Your timeliness would be greatly appreciated._

_Commander Cullen Rutherford_

  *          _Lyrium: A Compendium by Enchanter Javard of Nevarra_
  *          _The Templars of Ferelden by Brother Genitivi _
  *          _Blue Gold: A History of the Lyrium Trade by Bergrit Ironfist_
  *          _The Fade Mineral by Rania Allum_
  *          _The Deep Roads Monopoly by Percival Aeducan_



///

“What is the meaning of this?”

Dorian marched in, eyes ablaze, and slammed a book down in front of him. Oh, perfect. Just what he needed after a long day, and a longer night ahead promised by the mountain of unread files on his desk. A slip of paper trembled at the top of the pile and wafted gently down to the floor. Cullen stared after it, forlorn.

“Can I help you, Dorian?”

“I certainly hope so. Where did this come from?”

“It’s a book. Did you try the library?”

“Yes, I can see it’s a book, thank you! But it’s a book I know for _certain_ wasn’t in Skyhold until approximately five hours ago, when a special delivery came from Montsimmard! _For me_.”

“How good of them.” Cullen examined the book’s spine. It was old, but in good condition, and Dorian’s misuse hadn’t appeared to damage it. “A Genitivi, I see. Rare edition. Is it some kind of peace offering, do you think? Laying the groundwork for an alliance between Orlais and Tevinter? Or perhaps a gesture of goodwill to the Inquisition as a whole.”

Dorian didn’t look impressed. “Quit your posturing, Commander. I told you I didn’t need your help with this. What did you do?”

Cullen sat back, folding his arms. “I don’t see why you’re so upset. You needed additional materials, so I procured them. That’s what the quartermaster is _for_ , if you would ever bother to use him.” Even as he said it, he knew he wouldn’t wish the contradictory whims of Dorian Pavus on anyone, least of all their scatterbrained new quartermaster. At least he’d got the job done.

“I make it a point to use no one’s resources but my own,” Dorian snapped. “I was making excellent headway without your interference.”

“It was my ‘interference’ that started this entire debacle in the first place! Look, the damage is done—if you can call it that. Now say thank you and be on your way, I’ve mountains of work to do and you’re not helping.”

For a split second, the lyrium in Dorian’s skin blazed fire-white, powerful enough to slam Cullen over the head and steal all the breath from his lungs. He clamped down on his quill hard enough to crack the shaft and pushed back. The lyrium threading through his veins prickled, raising the hair on his arms, and Dorian hissed as if he’d been burned, stepping away from the desk.

“You’re being childish,” Cullen said curtly, trying to pretend he wasn’t shaking with the force of what had passed between them. “Why can’t you simply accept that I wanted to help, in whatever small way I could?”

“It feels… wrong, to use the Inquisition’s influence for my benefit.” Dorian’s anger had given way to a stiffness that Cullen could feel through the bond. He forced himself to relax in his chair, hoping some trace of it would find its way to Dorian. “The fight against Corypheus is bigger than I am. It requires all the focus and energy we can spare.”

Cullen couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re angry because you feel _selfish_? Maker, Dorian, you aren’t half the stuck-up prick you pretend to be.”

“I’ll thank you not to insinuate anything about my prick,” Dorian shot back, but he was smirking just a bit. “And yes, if you like. But it’s more that… I’m used to hiding. Going unnoticed. This will draw attention to me, and to the Inquisition. The Venatori’s attention.”

Cullen was suddenly regretting having the package addressed to Dorian. “Do you think they’ll come for you?”

“It’s very much within the realm of possibility. I would hate to see any member of the Inquisition suffer on my behalf.” He drifted forward again, grazing the spine of the book with his fingertips. “It is… an excellent addition to our library, however. I must thank you for that, at least.”

“I hope it will be useful in your research.”

He chuckled. “You needn’t sound so prim. I underestimated you, Commander—you are certainly proving to be a valuable research partner.”

“Partner, is it?”

“Well, yes. I can’t ignore that you’ve used your not inconsiderable clout to fetch several tomes of incredible worth to Skyhold, just for me.”

“For both of us,” Cullen corrected. “And it would benefit the Inquisition greatly to know more about the people in it. Especially people with gifts like yours.”

“And yours.” Dorian held out his hand, tattoos gleaming with a subtle glow. Cullen accepted the pull, and let Dorian draw a little power out of him. It felt like being tapped on the shoulder by an old friend, unexpected but not unwelcome, and perfectly polite. “The possibilities are dizzying. Imagine what we could do together, if we just knew a little more.”

“Well?” He pushed the book towards Dorian. “What are we waiting for?”

“I thought you had Very Important Work that needed doing?”

“I can make an exception this once.”

A handful of hours later, the last midnight watchman slipped into her Commander’s office to drop off her report. Usually it was dark at this time, the desk cleared of work and tidied for the next day, the Commander’s soft snores wafting from his loft above her head (not that she would ever tell him that). Tonight there was a lamp still burning, and the desk was occupied. She stopped short, ready to beat a hasty retreat, and paused.

Commander Cullen was slumped over the desk, head buried in a book whose spine was at least the width of his face. He was out of his officer’s armor and cloak, hair askew, and it took her a moment to recognize him. He looked so ordinary like this. So… human. And he wasn’t alone.

Propped against the desk, head tipped back in a silent snore, was the Tevinter mage—the lyrium enchanter. Dorian. Rumors were flying thick and fast about his reasons for joining the Inquisition, not all of them kind, but she had never had reason to share those superstitions. Tevinters were people like any other. And this one in particular seemed to have had a rough time of it. The way he was sprawled out on the floor, scrolls in his lap and the Commander’s hand on his shoulder, certainly confirmed that. Adorable. She tiptoed forward and placed her report on the desk, near to the Commander’s outstretched arm. Then, just as quietly, she slipped out again. Ritts would just _die_ when she told her about this.

///

_Messere Tethras,_

_My agents have located Hawke, but out of respect for your friendship with her, I have removed them from the field. You may find her coordinates below, in code. I trust you will be able to unravel it._

_I have honored your request to say nothing of this transaction to Cassandra. But rest assured, I will not withhold this information for long. She was committed to finding the Champion for the Inquisition’s cause, and I supported her in that endeavor, even if I did not entirely agree with her methods. Whether or not you knew of Hawke’s location at the time is irrelevant. She will need to know sooner or later. I think it would be best that it come from you._

_Sister Nightingale_

///

The scream woke Dorian from a sound sleep. It took a few moments of panicked fumbling to realize he hadn’t heard it aloud—it had come from inside his head. His lyrium brands flared in reaction, and he scrambled out of bed without lighting a candle. His own body lit the way: socks and shirt, breeches, tunic, robes, staff. The last was hardly necessary, but it was a psychological comfort as he left his humble room and began the trek to the ramparts.

It was storming over Skyhold. Lightning rent the black sky, followed immediate by a ricocheting boom of thunder that made him jump and hunch his shoulders higher around his ears. Even in his heavy wool robes and outer cloak, the rain quickly drenched him, sneaking under his hood to dampen his hair and trickle into his beard. The pull of the bond grew stronger with the storm, and he quickened his pace.

Cullen’s office, when he reached it, was deserted, the right-hand door flapping alarmingly in the wind. He braced it open with his shoulder, squinting against the lashing rain. It was almost impossible to see anything, but as he was debating going out into the gale, another streak of lightning scattered its branches across the sky, illuminating Skyhold in stark monochrome. In that split second, bright as daylight, Dorian saw a figure silhouetted against the stone. Cullen.

“Bloody foolish man,” he muttered, and tugged his hood low as he stepped out into the downpour.

The outer ramparts had no protection from the wind, and it tore his cloak away from his body, icy fingers delving into his clothes like an unwelcome lover. He growled and fought with the elements for a few steps before giving up and striding along the parapet unprotected. His staff grew slick with rain, but he held fast, using the blunt end as a safeguard against slipping and cracking his head open on the treacherous stone.

The Commander, when he found him, was a wreck. He paced the open square of a corner turret, stripped of his usual finery to breeches, boots, and a thin white linen shirt that was plastered to his body with rain. His hair was in complete disarray, curls bursting free of confining oils, and his eyes were wild as he spun on his heel to face Dorian’s approach.

“Stay back!” he shouted, voice thin over the storm’s angry howl. “Keep away from me, mage.”

Dorian stopped as if he’d been struck by the lightning that burst overhead, thunder exploding on its heels. “I’m not here to hurt you!” he answered. He laid his staff down slowly, letting it rest in the seam where the turret’s low wall met the floor. “I only want to help you.”

“No one can help me.” He could barely be heard over the rain, shoulders slumped and head cast low. The bond, new and fragile as it was, pulsed weakly in Dorian’s brands like a dying fish gasping its last breaths in the open air. “I can’t… I’ve failed before I even began.”

Dorian took a tentative step forward, palms open, and immediately his lyrium flared to life, sizzling down his back and out to his fingers as Cullen lashed out through the bond. Dorian reared back with a shout and Cullen drove into him, shoving him up against the wall, fingers tight as manacles around his unresisting arms.

“You shouldn’t _be here_ ,” he snarled, eyes burnished to a gleaming copper by the lyrium in Dorian’s face. “The withdrawal, it’s—I can’t control it, I’ll _hurt_ you.”

“Then hurt me,” Dorian found himself saying. He pushed back through the bond, and Cullen’s eyes rolled back in his head. “Fight me. Do whatever it is you need to do, get it out of your system, and _stop this nonsense_.”

Cullen’s teeth gritted together, nearly audible even over the storm, and Dorian winced in sympathy for his molars. “I’m… afraid of what the lyrium will do. It’s taking me over, it’s—it’s more than the addiction, it’s _you_. Every day, eating away at me, I don’t know what belongs to me and what’s yours.”

“The only person inside your head is _you_.” He forced his brands brighter, staining Cullen’s sunken cheeks and shadowed eyes with silver. The Commander cried out, trembling, but didn’t release his hold on Dorian’s wrists. “This isn’t like your weekly dose of lyrium, burning your brain, stealing your memories. This power will not control you unless you let it.” Another pulse, a flicker of breath on Cullen’s cheek, and the Commander pushed away, staggering as the physical connection jarred the lyrium bond.

“Andraste preserve…” His voice gave out.

Dorian drew himself up, away from the stone at his back, and shrugged off his cloak. The rain soaked through his light tunic and breeches immediately, but he didn’t feel the chill. “Wherever or whatever she is, Andraste cannot help you now. _I_ can, if you will let go of your stubborn pride long enough to accept it.”

There was a long stretch of silence, broken only by the unceasing rain. Even the heavens quieted, thunder and lightning holding back as if awaiting the verdict, and the tension built until Dorian was sure he could have snapped it with a twitch of his finger.

The only warning he had was a subtle swell of warmth through his markings. He raised his hands in defense just as Cullen rushed at him, mouth open in a soundless snarl. Dorian caught him around the waist, trying to shove him off, but the rainwater slicked beneath his boots and he skidded back, a lamb caught in the proverbial bull’s headlong rush. He would have toppled backward and split his skull on the unforgiving stone had he not reached inside himself and _pushed_ , drawing a line of force to propel him harmlessly back into Cullen’s embrace.

The lyrium in Cullen’s blood sang out in response, skittering like grasping fingers through Dorian’s tattoos, and he let out a broken bellow just as lightning split the sky over their heads. Dorian ducked a swing and countered, fingertips alighting on his own forehead before flicking out. A burst of energy forced Cullen back a few paces.

The rough, brutish grapple became a kind of dance between them. Cullen used his physical strength, augmented by the bond, and Dorian relied on his quick reflexes and minor bursts of force magic, feeding off the ebb and flow of lyrium between them. He could feel the drain of power when Cullen prepared to charge him, and let it loose, watched as he sped across the wet stone so quickly it was nearly a fade-step; and then, just as Cullen reached for him, he side-stepped and slammed a bolt of lightning down where Cullen had just been, throwing him forward. The warrior tumbled sloppily, training breaking down under the weight of stress and the slick surface, and Dorian could _feel_ the wrench of his shoulder through his brands. Almost instinctively he pushed lyrium back at him, knitting torn muscle back together.

Above them, thunder tore apart the sky. Cullen scrambled back to his feet and paused, chest heaving, eyes blown dark as he waited for Dorian’s next move. The mage lifted his hand, summoning a ball of fire. It sputtered and gutted in the downpour, but held, and he drew back to bring it down between them as a kind of barrier. But instead, his brands tugged, draining just a bit. Too late he felt the unfamiliar pull of a Cleanse—Cullen reached out, fingers gesturing as if they held a literal thread of lyrium, and suddenly the fireball winked out, stifled by the power of his own brands. The turn of his own power on himself left a hollow space inside him, rapidly filled with the strength of his brands but gaping even still, raw and tender like a fresh bruise. He gasped rainwater, hand against his side.

“Maker’s breath.” Cullen’s voice was lost to the screaming wind, but his scarred mouth formed the words as familiarly as if Dorian had spoken them himself. A little of Cullen’s helpless rage seemed to drain away, and Dorian watched as he bent forward, digging deep into his own trace reserves of lyrium, and _pushed._

A hot tide broke over him, scouring him like a sandstorm. He staggered as his brands flared blinding white. The hole in his chest was filled, replaced with warmth and light—the bruise was gone as if it had never been.

Dorian righted himself as the last waves rolled through his body. His hands were shaking—his whole body was shaking, actually, but not with cold, although his own skin felt icy to the touch. The bond was a warm buzz throughout his body and the excess energy shook itself out of him, spooling away in threads of fire and ice that dissipated harmlessly in the rain.

A few paces away, Cullen sagged, his solid frame weighed down by rain and worry. “Dorian…” His voice was velvet-soft and just audible. The downpour was softening.

Dorian limped toward him, battered and bruised but flush with lyrium and adrenalin. When he reached out, intending comfort, Cullen flinched back, and he huffed in irritation. “I admit I’m no healer, but this, at least, is well within my capabilities.”

Slowly, Cullen allowed the other man to draw him back into his embrace. He was stiff in Dorian’s arms, hard-edged and fidgety, but a slow pulse of lyrium and a soft hand on the back of his head soon quieted him. With a soft sound of relief, he laid his head on Dorian’s shoulder. They were almost of a height, but Cullen’s bulkier frame meant he had to stretch a bit to settle comfortably; Dorian balanced up on the balls of his feet to compensate.

“There,” he sighed. “That’s better.” He breathed out, warm against Cullen’s temple, and for a while they were quiet. “What does it feel like, if I may ask?”

Cullen stiffened. “What do you mean?”

He clucked his tongue soothingly and ran his fingers through the short-cropped curls at the base of Cullen’s skull. “The lyrium bond. I don’t mean to pry, it’s just… well, it’s not hard to see that it has an effect on you. That _I_ have an effect on you. It… calms you.”

“Except when we’re wrestling in the dirt like children,” Cullen muttered.

“Hmm, yes. Well, no harm done. Getting rid of pent-up aggression is healthy, generally. And you don’t have the benefit of going into the field yourself, being Commander and all, so it stands to reason you’d get… antsy.” _Maker, Dorian, shut up!_ The poor man had enough buzzing around in his brain without Dorian’s tongue running away with him.

But Cullen didn’t seem to mind. He turned his head to rest his cheek more solidly on Dorian’s shoulder, mouth a hairsbreadth from the lobe of his ear. He could feel a droplet of rain there, clinging, and it send a shiver through him that he barely managed to suppress. “It’s relaxing,” Cullen said at last. This close, he didn’t need to shout to be heard, and the whisper of his voice in Dorian’s ear was startlingly intimate. “When you’re nearby, or touching me, it’s like… being in a warm bath after a long day. My headaches fade, and I feel… fresher. More awake.”

“And when we’re… at odds?”

“Electrifying.” The word was said with a frank honesty that tightened Dorian’s gut. There was a mortified chuckle in his ear, and Cullen cleared his throat. “Just now, even though we were fighting, it still fed energy into me, pushed me to fight harder and faster. I could draw from you, and you from me—but it wasn’t tiring. The physical fight was tiring, but not the… lyrium.”

“It’s not the same as taking it, then. Drinking it, whatever.”

“I took it intravenously,” Cullen said, the words formed with distaste. “It had a quicker effect, and I’ve never liked the taste. But… no. It’s entirely different. I can tell it’s lyrium, in you—in your skin. It calls to me, in a way, but it’s not… it’s different.”

“Different like a twopenny whore moaning your name is different from a trusted lover whispering in your ear?” Dorian asked, and regretted it when he remembered that Cullen was doing just that. The Commander laughed, a little stilted, and drew away. _Fasta vass._

“I suppose so.” There was an awkward pause before Cullen added, “Thank you, Dorian. For this.”

Dorian blinked, taken aback by the directness of his gaze. The rain had become a soft, steady thrum, the heavy stormclouds rolled off to other climes. The electricity still lingered in the air, a memory of their duel, and he shivered just a little in the stiff Frostback breeze. “You are most welcome, Cullen. Any time. Although perhaps less battering and bruising next time, yes?”

Cullen grinned, a little sheepish. “Yes, I suppose I can work with that.”

///

_Mister Pavus,_

_The arcanist has arrived in Skyhold, a funny she-dwarf callin herself Dagna. I mighta mentioned you in passing one time and she got the brightest look in her eye. She’s been keepin busy with runecrafting for the Inquisitor, but she said when she has a minute she’d like to sit you down and pick your brain. I reckon I oughta pass on the warning, before you wake up at night and she’s sittin by yore bed just waitin to ask a mountain of questions. Good luck to ye._

_Harritt_

///

Dorian had never been to the Undercroft. It was cold, the chill seeping out of the rock walls and the wind whistling by just past the edge of the dropoff. He edged over to it, looking over the railing. The world fell away below his feet, yawning, like the throat of some giant who had long ago been turned to stone. He shivered and pulled his scarf tighter around his face.

“Oh, hello.”

He turned abruptly, but saw nothing. Then his eyes fell to the dwarf girl standing before him, barely reaching the middle of his chest, and he realized who it was.

“You’re the arcanist. Dagna.”

“That’s me,” she said cheerfully. Her smile stretched her face prettily, but her sparkling eyes were fixed on his face—on his brands—like she wanted to peel his skin off and examine it in greater detail. He shivered. “And you’re Dorian. Harritt told me about you. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m _ever_ so curious about your…” She waved a hand vaguely at his person.

“Brands,” he filled in. “Or tattoos, if you like.”

“Yes. That.” She looked around the cavern. The only other person there was Harritt’s assistant, tinkering at something small and delicate on an anvil in the corner. “I was hoping the Commander would be here.”

“He’s on his way. He had paperwork to finish.” Dorian folded his hands behind his back, wishing Cullen had been just a little more timely. Logically, he knew that he could easily overpower this Fade-less girl if necessary, but it felt wrong to plan the best way to knock her unconscious when all she’d done was appear a little overeager. “You seem rather… young.”

“I am,” she agreed gleefully, although she didn’t disclose her actual age, he noticed. “But I’m the best there is. Or the best there is that I know of. And that the Inquisitor knows of.” She beamed. “Isn’t his Mark fascinating? He gave me some samples to work with, they’re quite extraordinary.”

Dorian swallowed. “Um… samples?”

“Oh, not of _him_! Although that _would_ have been extra-extraordinary.” She looked briefly glum, but brightened again almost immediately. “But never mind him! I was hoping to talk about _you_.” She gestured to a little workstation with a table and chair and a few fiddly pieces of equipment that he vaguely recognized from his time with Alexius. Antique pieces, mostly, crafted by dwarves and meant solely for use by enchanters, but these looked newer and more than serviceable. The pockets of the Inquisition were deep indeed. “Won’t you sit? Perhaps we can have a bit of a chat before the Commander joins us.”

Dorian sat at the chair, which was a little too short for him; his knees poked up from the folds of his robes, and he folded his hands in his lap awkwardly. “What would you like to know?”

She grilled him quite thoroughly for a while, taking detailed notes and pausing occasionally to stare at him through the thick-lensed spectacles she’d donned in between each query. While Dorian was tense at first, unused to speaking so frankly and openly about himself, he slowly relaxed. Dagna was clearly interested only for the sake of knowledge, and had no intention of exploiting what she learned or using it against him. And while she was a bit inappropriately interested in the details of the branding process, she balanced it with genuine, if awkward, sympathy for the pain he had suffered.

Cullen arrived at long last, just at the tail-end of Dorian’s rambling explanation of their inadvertent duel a few day before. He lingered politely near the door until he was done, then ventured forward.

“Sorry I’m so late. Things… piled up.”

“It’s no problem!” Dagna said brightly. Cullen had clearly met the arcanist before, as her overeager demeanor passed him by without so much as a batted eyelash. “I was just finished talking to Dorian. I’m _very_ interested in seeing this bond first-hand!”

“It’s, er… not really something tangible,” Cullen began, but she was already waving him off.

“I know that! I meant more like… seeing its effects in person. I heard about what happened with the Iron Bull and everything, and I know it’s too much to ask you to replicate that _here_ , but… perhaps a small demonstration?” Her eyes went huge and liquid, and in spite of his reservations, Dorian found himself softening.

“We can try. I’m not sure that here is the best place, however, considering all of your delicate equipment.” He decided not to mention Harritt’s assistant, who was glancing in their direction with increasing wide-eyed frequency.

“There’s a place I know of that might suit,” Cullen offered. “A small clearing just outside Skyhold. We were considering it for a training yard before the Inquisitor decided to move it within the walls.”

With that information in hand, the three garbed themselves for the chilly trek and left Skyhold on foot, following the main path from the bridge for a bit before Cullen led them off to one side. A narrow goat track wound between two boulders, deepening into a kind of ravine before opening out into a flat, smooth space frosted with the morning’s snowfall. Dorian’s breath billowed before him, and without thinking he conjured a small warming spell, letting it knit through his brands. Ahead of him, Cullen shivered and looked over his shoulder.

“Oh!” Dagna exclaimed. “Was that something?”

“I… a warming spell.” Dorian frowned. “Did you feel that?”

“A little.” Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, considering. “I’m not really any warmer, but it was like… someone was taking a bath and opened the door, and all the steam poured out.”

Dagna was already scribbling away, hardly taking the time to station herself on a low slab of rock. He fingers poked out of her knit gloves, pink in the cold, and Dorian extended a hand, letting his brands tug a little on the flecks of lyrium floating in Cullen’s blood. The Commander blew out a long breath. “What… should I do?”

“Think of warmth,” Dorian instructed. “Sitting before the fire, feet out, damp socks drying. Or of climbing into a bath, if you prefer.” He smirked. “I’m sure you can imagine that all by yourself.”

Cullen flushed a little, head bowed in concentration. At the edges of his brands, Dorian felt a tickle, then a nudge, more concrete than anything since Cullen had first stumbled on their link in his duel with Bull. Dorian let the power move through him, let Cullen guide the spell through the conduit of his body. Dagna’s eyes grew round as marbles and she held her hands up in front of her face. “I’m… warm. So warm.” She giggled. “Maybe a little _too_ warm.”

Dorian cut off the spell, letting a little residue linger to keep her comfortable. “Better?”

“Much.” She was already writing furiously, her curious featherless quill dancing along the page. “Can you describe it for me? Both of you.”

Cullen shared a quick glance with Dorian and cleared his throat. “I don’t really know how to… I could feel the power leaving me, but it wasn’t like casting a Cleanse or Silence. Those are restricting. I used—would use the lyrium to put chains around the strength of a mage and bind it. This was like… there were chains around _me_ , and through Dorian I could shake them off.”

Dorian blinked at him, astonished by the depth of emotion in his voice. “That was… surprisingly honest, for a Templar. _Ex_ -Templar, forgive me.”

Cullen frowned slightly, but nodding, seeming to acknowledge the remark for the compliment it was intended to be. “And you, ser mage?”

“It was like what being a staff must feel like, if staves were sentient. Essentially, you used my body for that purpose—a lyrium conduit to enhance and direct your powers. Except that I was able to shape your will into something useful and practical, rather than just… flinging lyrium about will-nilly.”

“Are you saying I… performed magic?” Cullen asked, looking alarmed. “Or that any Templar could in fact use a staff the way a mage might?”

“I doubt it,” Dorian reassured him. “Templars who have taken lyrium long enough, with the proper training, might be able to craft rudimentary spellwork with the help of a staff, but that would first require them putting aside their prejudices about mages.” He smirked. “A far more difficult feat than any spell, you’ll agree.”

“The implications are fascinating, if true,” Dagna spoke up, apparently oblivious to the tension between them. “But please, don’t hold back on my account. Try something else! Like a… an offensive spell, perhaps. What is your focus, Dorian?”

“Fire,” Dorian said, glancing askance at Cullen’s glowering face. “And… necromancy.”

“Oooh, yes! That explains your mana channels! I wasn’t sure if they were intended to be purely decorative, but it seems they do serve a purpose.”

“Indeed.” Dorian removed his gloves and tucked them in his belt, examining the brands that lined his bare palms. “I will conjure a small flame. Commander, if you would attempt to muffle it. No Cleanses, please, just… reach out, like you might snuff a candle.”

In the middle of his palm, the lines converged on a single point. It was here that most of his focus was centered. With the slightest breath of will, a flame leaped into being, dancing a few safe inches from his skin and warming the air around it. Then, separate from his own pool of mana, he felt a thin trickle snake along his brands as if seeking something. It became a chill, gathering under his skin—the intrusion made the hairs on his nape stand up, and not altogether unpleasantly.

The flame went out.

“Perhaps something more advanced?” Cullen suggested.

“If you’re willing.”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed at the challenge. “I am.”

Dorian paced to the center of the clearing, robes lapping at his ankles, and drew his arm in a wide half-circle. A barrier sprang up around Dagna and she gasped, eyes lit a sparkling blue by the runecircle.

“A test then, Commander. Good old-fashioned dueling, mage against Templar. Let’s see how much of your training you remember.”

Dorian had fought plenty of Templars since he’d come to Ferelden a year ago. Even with the reduced lyrium in his system, Cullen had enough to be dangerous, and the bond made him doubly so. There would be no holding back. Without any more warning, Dorian lifted his arms and summoned a storm of fire.

If the tussle on the ramparts had been electrifying, this was a thunderstorm of epic proportions. Fumbling at first, but quickly gaining traction, Cullen _pulled_ on the bond, grasping at Dorian’s brands and twisting the lyrium with delicate fingers and a quick mind—he had no shield, only the sword he always carried at his side, but he used it as proficiently as a mage would use a staff, making it the channel of his focus rather than the brunt of it. The blade never made contact with Dorian, although it danced around him as if it fought a hundred soldiers singlehandedly. Instead it threw force, licked fire, frosted ice—little flares of magic pulled from Dorian’s mana and expelled through the lyrium dust in Cullen’s veins.

They battled for long minutes, lost in the rhythm of it. As they gained a better feel for the bond, learning how best to manipulate it, the duel became more a dance than a fight, working together rather than against one another. The shift in purpose sang through Dorian’s body like the raw Fade. He could see it in Cullen’s face, too, the breathless grin, the unconscious crinkle of his amber eyes as he moved.

The warrior thrust out his blade, not toward Dorian, but _up_ —Dorian let him draw from the brands, channeling his years of work and study, and a bolt of pure force rocketed skyward before exploding in an invisible mushroom shape that rent a deep crack in the rock beneath their feet.

Dorian staggered, gasping, and fell to one knee at the edge of the rift. It was only a few handspans wide, and peering down he could see the bedrock that had halted Cullen’s blast; but he still shook a little, terrified and awed in equal measure. They had _split a mountain open_ with the power of their bond.

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen rasped, leaning on his sword. He was staring too, pale beneath the flush and sweat of exertion. With careful movements, he stepped over the crack and knelt at Dorian’s side. “Are you all right?”

“All right? That was….” He inhaled deeply, tasting the grit of the mountain’s insides. “That was _magnificent._ ”

A tiny squeak reminded him forcibly of Dagna. He hauled himself upright with the help of Cullen’s square, sturdy hand, and turned to her. She was perched at the very edge of her seat, eyes wider than pigeon’s eggs and clasping her notebook to her chest, mouth a round _O_ of delight.

“That was… that was…” she stammered, and seemed unable to continue.

“Are you well, Mistress Dagna?” Cullen asked, brow furrowed with concern. He went to her, hand out, and she nearly squealed again at his approach.

“Brilliant! Amazing! I—there aren’t words, sers, oh my goodness, oh Maker, oh Ancestors!” She gasped for breath while Cullen patted her back awkwardly, red-faced with excitement.

“Perhaps you ought to lie down?” Dorian suggested wryly. “And a soothing tincture of some kind. A little extract of embrium in honey-water will do wonders for your heart rate.”

Cullen’s mouth twitched, twisting the scar on his lip attractively. “Shall we carry you back to your chambers, milady arcanist? You seem a bit overcome.”

“I—I—overcome!” she cried. “Oh, Stone take you, I don’t need to be carried _anywhere_. Oh I have so much to do, so many notes to take and books to consult—I know just the ones—but does the library have them? They are rather obscure texts…”

“I have a small collection you may borrow from,” Dorian soothed, sharing a glance of mild alarm with Cullen. “ _After_ you rest. Honestly, my dear, you’re alarming me. Come, at least take my arm. I’ll make myself glow and everything.”

“You _will_?”

Cullen snorted behind one hand as Dagna sprang to take Dorian’s proffered elbow. “I have a feeling you’re going to regret that,” he muttered. Dorian sent a little kick through the bond in response, and smirked when Cullen jumped, then glared. “Wonderful. A long-distance way for you to annoy me even further. Just what I’ve always wanted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not even gonna lie, the only reason I went with the Templars is for that entrance. Dorian falling into Cullen's arms is always fantastic. However, I have yet to do a full playthrough with the Templars, so I'm avoiding as much rehashing of the game as possible and just sticking to the Dorian/Cullen storyline.


	5. 4.

_Dearest Felix,_

_I only just found the letter you hid in my copy of Genitivi’s_ The History of Grey Wardens in Ferelden _, and I don’t appreciate your attempt at humor. Cullen is not ‘my’ Commander, he is an insufferable bore. Are all southerners this self-flagellating or is it just Fereldans? You’d think I’d know these things after a year of living among the dog lords. Regardless, Rutherford has a particular type of rustic ignorance that positively grates. If he ‘drops by’ my nook in the library one more time with asinine questions I swear I’m going to toss a fireball in the general direction of his perfect hair._

_And of course he’s never where he ought to be when I actually need him. I wandered all over Skyhold yesterday only to find him in the tiny Chantry, of all places. More of a chapel, really. I didn’t know anyone actually went in there, yet Cullen seems to while away far too many hours in that dusty hole. I’m as religious as the next man, but the Commander takes dutiful piety to the next level._

_The Inquisitor intends to take me along on this trip of his out to Crestwood. I asked permission for you to come along, but he said you would only “slow us down.” He’s right of course, Blight take him, but I can’t help being furious anyway. The longer you waste away the more I fear I’ll lose you completely._

_Cullen assured me he will look after you. I didn’t ask him to. We were in the chapel, because he goes there when he’s troubled, and his moods somehow draw me in like a moth to a flame. I sit behind him in one of the pews they have—you haven’t been to the chapel, have you? It’s quite painfully rustic—and he kneels before the battered statue of Andraste they salvaged from Haven’s ashes. He prays silently, I think. Sometimes he weeps, and that is silent too. We never speak. Until yesterday._

_He came to sit beside me when his prayers were done, and he said he would make sure you were comfortable. He said he would sit by your side when he could, and write me about your progress. It wasn’t what I expected him to say. I can’t even remember what I did in return. I just remember leaving him there, and the sunlight in the garden was sharper than knives on my face._

_You won’t be well enough to read this. Maybe Cullen will read it aloud to you while you sleep, tossing in your fever dreams. If so: I didn’t mean to walk out on you, Commander. No one has offered to do that sort of thing for me before, that’s all._

_I’ll be back for you, Felix. I’ll save you like you saved me. I’ll bring you back from the Fade itself if it’s the last thing I do._

_Faithfully yours,_

_Dorian_

///

Crestwood was absolutely wretched. Every corpse that stumbled across their path, every idiot farmboy begging them to check up on their friend who was too stupid to come to the relative safety of the village, was another handful of minutes of Felix’s life draining away. Wasted. Every step forward was one closer to the Grey Warden, and every pause seemed like five steps back. Dorian barely ate that first night in camp, too sick to his stomach. _We could be marching, daylight or no daylight._

Trevelyan, to his credit, didn’t waste much time. He stopped to hear the needs of the people of Crestwood, and fought undead when they occurred, but there was no talk of going to Caer Bronach just yet; instead they made for the coordinates Hawke had given them, stopping in the early evening to set up a proper camp. They were joined shortly by a few of Leliana’s people who had been scouting the area. While Varric spoke with them, Trevelyan pulled Dorian aside, stepping into the ruins of an old barn to shake a little of the constant deluge.

“We’re near the place Hawke told me about. I don’t want to wait about too much longer. If you’d like, you can accompany me, but I need your word that you’ll keep your head, and not try to force this Warden into anything he doesn’t wish to. I _know_ ,” he added, seizing Dorian’s forearm in a vise-grip. “I know it hurts. I’ll do everything I can to bring him to Skyhold and see to Felix. But I can’t let anything come before the needs of the Inquisition.”

“I understand,” Dorian said stiffly. The man was ruthless when he had to be, and it was what made him a perfect Inquisitor; but, Maker, sometimes he _hated_ him.

They left Varric and Bull behind, happily drying off in their allotted tents. Dorian pulled his hood lower and followed the Inquisitor like a ghost. Nightfall seemed to have no effect on the quality of light; the rain fell heavily day and night, and the eerie green glow of the underwater rift filtered over everything for miles. Grim though it was, Dorian was grateful for the illumination as they picked their muddy way through the hills, avoiding the jutting clumps of red lyrium that spiked the landscape like grasping fingers.

The cave, when they found it, was like a dark mouth slanting in the hillside. Trevelyan approached it warily, Dorian conjuring a bit of illusion to cloak himself in shadow. Rogue that he was, the Inquisitor didn’t need the extra edge.

Dorian felt the ward just as he stepped over it. He froze, waiting for the blast of ice or spirit magic, but they winked out and Hawke materialized at the cavern’s entrance, wrapped thickly in layers of waxed canvas.

“Took you long enough. Bloody awful weather they’re having here, isn’t it?”

Trevelyan only grunted. “Your Warden friend is inside?”

“Yes, Stroud is here. He’s a bit jumpy lately, so… go easy on him.”

Dorian thought back to the Grey Wardens they’d encountered just outside Crestwood the day before. “He’s not the only Warden in the area. He’s being hunted.”

Hawke’s face was pinched. “We’re aware. Come on, let’s not keep them waiting.”

 _Them?_ Dorian wondered, but the Inquisitor seemed satisfied, so he didn’t push. Hawke led the way into the cavern, but fell back to walk apace with Dorian as they pressed deeper into the hillside, their steps lit by the watery blue glow of deep mushrooms.

“How’s your friend?”

“Bad,” Dorian answered. “I’m hoping… that is, do you think Stroud would be willing to make him a Grey Warden?”

“He’s done it before, under great duress. I’m sure he won’t turn you away. But Dorian… there’s no guarantee it will work. Felix may die regardless.”

“Death is death,” Dorian said flatly. “While he lives, I refuse to do him the disservice of losing hope.”

From ahead of them came raised voices. Hawke broke into a trot, cursing under her breath. Dorian followed. A moment later, they pushed their way through a wooden barricade into the cavern’s dead-end to find the Inquisitor at the business end of a sword. The man holding it was glaring distrustfully. “You’re the Inquisitor, are you? Prove it, then.”

“Maker’s balls, Carver, but down the sword,” Hawke said in exasperation. “Inquisitor, forgive my younger brother. Ten years as a Warden has done nothing for his short temper.”

Carver Hawke—sharing little resemblance to his sister but the piercing blue eyes and raven hair—sheathed his sword reluctantly. “How was I to know? Perhaps you’d been slaughtered at the mouth of the cave by bandits and this fellow was coming to finish the job.”

“Charming, as ever.” A thick Orlesian accent joined the fray, and Dorian turned as another Warden came into the light. He was much older than Carver, sporting a heavy mustache and tired eyes that spoke of long days on the run. Dorian could sympathize. “Forgive Warden Hawke’s enthusiasm, Inquisitor, but he is right to be cautious. We have had several near misses in recent days.”

“The Wardens are looking for you,” Trevelyan confirmed. “We met them on the road, but they claimed to be turning back toward Amaranthine.”

“With any luck, they spoke the truth. I am Stroud.” He held out a hand and Trevelyan shook it companionably. “Carver you already know.”

Dorian tuned out the ensuing conversation, more interested in examining Carver. He’d had no idea Hawke’s brother was a Warden, and he wondered how that had come about. The boy was brash and quick to speak, but was clearly passionate and cared deeply for his sister. Surely someone with such close familial ties wouldn’t join the Wardens voluntarily.

Hawke’s voice broke him out of his wandering thoughts. “Fuck! Carver, why didn’t you say anything?”

Carver scowled at his sister. “I didn’t want to worry you. And Stroud was there for… support.”

“Warden secrets are secret for a reason,” Stroud said calmly. “The Calling in particular is a grim charge. The taint is a death sentence no matter what; it’s only that a Warden’s time takes a little longer to come.”

Dorian was suddenly regretting his inattention. “How much longer?”

“Twenty or thirty years, give or take,” Carver said. “Or it’s supposed to be. I started hearing mine almost a year ago, just before Stroud—such an early Calling is unheard-of. That was when we began to suspect something was wrong.”

Trevelyan folded his arms. “So Corypheus is using this ‘Calling’ to convince the Wardens that their time has come, all at the same time, and they’re _buying_ it?”

“It’s a difficult thing to describe to someone who has not felt it,” said Stroud. “It begins with dreams. Then, whispers in your head. The Warden must make his farewells then, and go into the Deep Roads, for what follows is a kind of madness that can only end in death, like putting down a dog.”

Dorian flinched. For the first time he began to wonder whether this was worth it. Putting Felix through all this hardly seemed the act of a friend. But then he looked at Carver, pale but steady in his blues and silvers, and in his mind’s eye he saw his friend, whole and healthy at least for a little while. In the end, it was no choice at all.

“Becoming a Grey Warden cures the taint, yes?” he interrupted.

“For a few decades, yes.” Stroud’s brows rose. “After all of this, you are not dissuaded?”

“It’s not me—my friend, he’s ill. He was infected with the taint years ago, but it’s only now that his body begins to fail.” Dorian quailed a little under their collective stares, unused to so much attention, but his voice didn’t falter. “If you can come to Skyhold, perform whatever ritual is required…”

“The Joining,” Carver said, “is dangerous, and often fatal. You would subject your friend to this?”

“Like I subjected you?” His sister was frowning, age-old sadness in her eyes.

“Yes, perhaps. I don’t regret it, sister, but it’s a horrible choice to have to make. And whatever the outcome, you’ll have to live with it for the rest of your life.”

Dorian lifted his chin. “Will you come to Skyhold? At least try?”

Stroud exchanged a glance with Carver, still wavering. “I can promise you nothing, ser mage. Carver speaks the truth: the Joining is a grave risk at the best of times, but with this false Calling, Corypheus warping our minds... who is to say what the outcome would be?”

“I know you want what’s best for him,” Hawke added softly, for once empty of all bravado and posturing. “But consider that after the Joining, he may not be the same Felix you once knew.”

“Better a living stranger than a dead friend.” Dorian was painfully aware of just how much he sounded like Alexius in that moment: half-crazed with grief and paranoia, willing to raze the earth and alter the passage of the stars for the sake of one man. Something in the Warden's eyes told him he saw it, too. But Stroud only nodded.

“I will accompany you to Skyhold. But we can waste no more time than that. The Venatori are gathering in the Western Approach, and we cannot let them muster unchallenged.”

“I understand,” Dorian said stiffly. He could feel the Inquisitor's eyes burning in the back of his neck, and he tried not to let it show. “Thank you.”

Stroud only shook his head. “Do not thank me yet.”

/

One frantic, stretched-out week later, Dorian paced the small chapel in a lonely vigil. Stroud and Carver had gone to Felix’s bedside as soon as they arrived, and Dorian had been banished to await the verdict.

He hadn’t meant to come here. His wandering feet had followed their own path, worry clouding his head, and when he’d pushed open the door to the makeshift Chantry he had stared about him in confusion, uncertain why he’d come. But he didn’t leave. He’d sat here often enough over the previous weeks, watching the Commander at his devotions; perhaps it was the routine of it, the familiarity of the creaky pews and the ash-streaked figure of Andraste, that brought this peace into his troubled soul. Whatever the reason, he found himself sitting at the back of the chapel, too ashamed of his incredulous faith to sit closer to _her_ , head bowed in supplication as he prayed for Felix’s life.

The door creaked open as he was fumbling through what little of the Chant he knew, and he bit off a curse. The last thing he wanted now was someone intruding on his misbegotten communion with the Maker’s bride. He cracked one eye open.

Cullen stood hesitantly just inside, looking at him. Oh. He straightened, feeling foolish bent over in a clumsy mockery of the Commander’s daily prayers.

“Please, don’t—I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not interrupting.” Dorian looked him over openly, surprised at how eager he was to see him after his absence from Skyhold. Cullen was in his armor and cloak, as usual, and looked pink-cheeked and healthy despite their week-long separation. The bond was apparently agreeing with him. “Did you want something?”

“Only to see if you were alright. I… read your note to Felix the other day.”

Cullen had read the letter. Of course he had. Dorian had expected it, and still he blushed to the tips of his ears like an errant schoolboy. “I’m fine.”

Cullen did him the courtesy of not laughing in his face. Instead, he stepped further into the chapel, head tilted toward the dais at its far end. “She won’t bite, you know.”

Dorian gave a weak chuckle. “I don’t know about that. I doubt she’s overly fond of my sort.”

“Your sort? Tevinters?”

Dorian shrugged.

“All creatures belong to the Maker, Dorian, regardless of origin. She loves you no less for the blood running in your veins.”

“Do you really believe that?” In spite of the hostile question, Dorian stood and matched Cullen stride for stride until he stood before the battered face of Andraste, staring up at her weathered face. Time and tide had not been kind to her wooden features, but there was beauty in their smoothness, the shiny edges of her robes worn smooth by countless hands begging intercession to the Maker.

“I do,” Cullen said firmly. He sank into the first-row pew, watching her as Dorian did. His face was utterly smooth of worry, and Dorian wished suddenly and fiercely for the peace that simply sitting in her presence seemed to bring him. “I’ll be the first to admit that the Chantry is deeply flawed. But its original intentions were good. Its foundation was her. When I lose faith in everything else, even myself, even the Maker… she still gives me hope.”

Dorian sank to the pew beside him, caught in the rhythm of his words. In this place of reverence, even a simple conversation became a kind of Chant.

“I don’t know if I did the right thing. Bringing Stroud here.”

“You wanted what was best for Felix—that can hardly be a sin.”

“But _is_ it best? A Warden’s life is not an easy one. Even if he survives this ritual of theirs, he will be forced to follow their laws, do their bidding. He was raised as I was, soft-hearted, in the lap of luxury.” He shook his bowed head, fingers digging into his scalp. “Have I just condemned him to a slower death?”

A soft touch alighted on his shoulder and settled there, sturdy and grounding. “You know him better than I, but it seems to me that you are giving him a second chance at life. What is that but a reciprocation of what he did for you?”

The memory of that night was conjured before Dorian’s eyes in an instant. The searing pain of his brands, Felix’s strong arm bearing him through the musty servant’s corridors, the too-brief farewell in the anxious twilight at the edge of the estate.

“I suppose it is.” He found himself leaning into Cullen’s touch, just a bit, but he did not withdraw. The lyrium in Cullen’s blood flowed through his brands in a companionable caress, and he realized with some awe that Cullen was actively trying to soothe him in the same way Dorian seemed to soothe him just by being near.

“Do you believe in the Maker?” Cullen asked quietly. “Are you… religious?”

Dorian snorted. “If you define ‘religious’ as sitting in a Chantry and listening to a blithering hen tell you how to live, then no. If you define it as believing in the possibility that something larger than yourself exists… then yes. By all means. The world is bigger than I, even bigger than you.” He leaned into Cullen’s shoulder, nudging the fanciful cloak and drawing a smile from that taciturn face. “It laughs at all the things we think we know.”

He sighed and stared down at his hands were they were linked together in his lap. He was sharply reminded of Cullen’s own hands, cased in leather, holding tight to the edge of the prayer hassock as if it were the only thing keeping him from flying into the sun: a familiar image after so many days watching him pray.

“To answer your question, Cullen, I don’t know what I believe. But your fervency, your ardor… it gives me hope.”

In silence, Cullen reached out with one gloved hand and settled it over Dorian’s. Even through the leather Dorian could feel the faint tingle of lyrium, the possibility lingering in Cullen’s veins like an unsung prayer. And though his own words felt inadequate, that gentle touch was a better supplication than he could have ever hoped to invent alone.

///

_Knight-Captain,_

_Oh wait, it’s Commander now, isn’t it? Well done you! Funny, I could never get my head around “Knight-Commander” and then you up and quit the tin cans altogether and I didn’t need to remember it. Still called you Knight-Captain, though. After nine years, some things just stick._

_I’m writing to you because you’re bleeding impossible to find, and also because I hear you’re extra-busy these days. Not content just heading up the armed forces of the entire Inquisition? Surely you’re not actually missing all the blood mage escapees and demon-possessed Templars? I’m as pissed as the next person over this Corypheus nonsense—dead things should stay dead, in my opinion—but sometimes it seems like Kirkwall had it worse. _

_Anyway, this Dorian Pavus. Nice fellow, absolutely wicked at chess.  Quite the looker, too. What is it about Tevinter? They seem to produce endless waves of beautiful people. Corypheus excluded of course, but a millennium or so of stewing in your own juices can’t be good for the skin. Lieutenant Cremisius is a sight for sore eyes. And that Servis fellow they just brought back from the Western Approach—Maker’s tits! (Don’t tell Fenris I said that.)_

_Speaking of beautiful Tevinters, I heard the good news about your newest Warden. Felix something, right? The son of that other Magister who was linked to Danarius? I can’t believe he survived the Blight for as long as he did. I wonder what it is that lets some people last longer than others. Captain Vallen’s husband faded in a matter of hours, and my brother lasted a few days, but Felix carried it for more than three years before he started to succumb._

_I can’t even remember why I was writing you to begin with. Oh! Of course, the lyrium. (Don’t be angry, Varric told me. My lips are proverbially sealed.) I don’t know how long it will take Fenris to stop being angry with me and come to Skyhold, but I have a few tricks I can pass on. They gave me a lovely loft room around the corner from that stuck-up Circle queen bee, if you’d like to chat. I’m there most days—I like the solitude, and there are too many people around here who know my face for my comfort. Or send one of your scout thingies with a note and I’ll meet you wherever you like._

_Your friend (?) in perpetuity and mischief,_

_Hawke_

///

Cullen let himself into Skyhold’s infirmary and stopped short. He'd been meaning to visit Felix since his chat with Dorian the other day, after their peaceful interlude was broken by the news that Felix had survived the Joining. His duties had kept him away before now, but instead of the empty room he'd hoped for, the seats at Felix's bedside were occupied. Dorian and Carver Hawke both turned before he could beat a sutble retreat, and Felix raised an easy hand in greeting.

"Commander, it's good to see you," he said, a little hoarse but perfectly sound in the wake of his months-long illness. "Please come in."

Cullen stepped in and closed the door behind him. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You aren't interrupting," Felix assured him. He shared some mysterious glance with his childhood friend, and Dorian stood, looking younger and brighter than Cullen had ever seen him.

“Come along, Ser Hawke, I think we’ve bothered Felix long enough. We mustn’t let him have too many visitors at once, or he might grow faint.”

“Oh, piss off,” Felix grumbled.

Dorian smirked. “Working on it.”

Cullen stood aside politely as they passed, nodding to Carver. He’d crossed paths with his erstwhile sister plenty of times in Kirkwall, but Carver—who’d disappeared shortly before Hawke’s rise to fame and fortune—was an unknown to him. Carver returned the nod, stone-faced. Not as cheerful as his sibling, then.

Cullen turned back to Felix as the door fell shut to find the younger man watching him. “I didn’t realize Warden Hawke was still in Skyhold.”

“He would have left already, he tells me, but Stroud wants him here for the time being while they investigate the Venatori in the Western Approach.” Felix shifted in bed, wincing at the strain it put on his wasted body, and gestured to the stool Dorian had just vacated. “Won’t you sit?”

Cullen did as directed, a little off-balance. While he had sat at Felix's bedside a few times, in truth he had barely exchanged more than two words with him. Felix had been deathly ill for nearly as long as he'd been with the Inquisition, which put a bit of a damper on carrying a conversation.

But Felix was either ignorant of Cullen’s discomfort or graciously ignored it. "I'm glad you came," he said, head turned on the pillow towards him. "I’ve been wanting to thank you. You didn't need to sit beside me, talking or reading, but you did. I was a perfect stranger, and you didn't seem to care."

"Dorian held vigil over you far longer than I," Cullen protested. "I just wanted to... do my part. Ease his mind.” He fiddled with the hem of his cloak. “You… knew I was there, then? You heard?”

“Yes. Less so towards the end, but it helped. Knowing someone was with me.” Felix smiled tranquilly. "You must care for Dorian a great deal, to sit at his friend's bedside without being asked."

"He’s a good man. Any friend of his is a friend of mine." He wasn't altogether sure why he was avoiding the Warden's assertion. It was true, he respected Dorian and had, strangely, come to care for him over the past weeks. He wasn't sure if it was the lyrium bond engineering their closeness or just a natural friendship springing up over chess and training and research sessions, but he was grateful for it nonetheless.

"Dorian is a tender soul," Felix said, fingers making absentminded patterns on the counterpane. "You wouldn't know it to look at him, but even before the, the lyrium, he was kind and good beneath his brashness. We Tevinters feel everything deeply, but Dorian more than most. We have no reserve, not in war and not in love.”

“I have seen a little evidence of that, yes. Though he strikes me more as grim rather than brash.”

“He was different, before. Louder. Brighter. Funny how glowing tattoos have made him dimmer.” Felix looked sad for a moment, then brightened. “Do me a favor? My pack is at the foot of the bed—there's a small box on top, in the inner pocket.”

Cullen fetched the item, a small jewelry box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. When Felix opened it, he could see a small collection of odds and ends tucked safely within: some colorful pebbles, a feather, a letter folded into a tight square, and a few rings. At the bottom was a thick piece of paper, which Felix slid free and unfolded. It was a painting, small but vibrant, like a sketch a master might do in preparation for a larger work. He passed it to Cullen, explaining, "My mother was an accomplished artist. She painted this when Dorian was eighteen and I was sixteen. He was just beginning his apprenticeship to my father."

Cullen took the painting delicately, captivated. It was obviously a formal sitting, the two boys—young men, really—side by side against a red velvet drape and dressed in their best. But the artist had captured the spirit underneath the straight-laced facade, their twin smirks and sparkling eyes full of mischief. Felix was easily recognizable, even smooth-cheeked and flushed with health—his dark eyes beamed out of the portrait with such vigor that Cullen half-expected him to speak.

Dorian was harder to reconcile with the man he knew now. In the picture, he was still soft at the jaw and snub-nosed, and his storm-grey eyes shone with cocky good humor. Instead of a wild mane barely tamed into a horsetail, this Dorian had short black hair trimmed close around his ears and curling loosely over his forehead. His skin was a flawless russet, unmarked by lyrium or sorrow, and perched above his full, unlined mouth was a mustache of almost comedic proportions, twirled extravagantly at the ends like it belonged to a deviant bachelor uncle.

Cullen realized he was grinning at this younger, cockier version of Dorian and belatedly smoothed his mouth flat. “Your mother was very talented. She captured your likenesses perfectly. I, ah… can see what you meant when you said he was brash.”

Felix laughed. “Honestly, ‘brash’ doesn't even begin to cover it. He was so sharp. His brain was always miles ahead of everyone else, and he knew it. Vain as a peacock.” He smiled, a little sadly, and put the picture back in his box. “The lyrium took all that away. There’s still flashes of the old Dorian, but sometimes it feels like I don’t really know him anymore.”

"Were you and Dorian, er...."

“What? Oh, Maker no!” Felix laughed, melancholy broken. “We grew up together, he was like an older brother to me. And I’m not... well. Neither of us were very fond of the strictures pressed on us by our social status, but I had met a girl my father thought was promising. But none of that matters now.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m alive, which is vastly preferable to being dead, as Dorian would say. And I’m finally free of the Venatori's hold. Working to rid Thedas of darkspawn is hardly an unfair trade. Besides, it's revenge for what they did to my family.”

“Your mother, you mean,” Cullen ventured.

“Yes. And my father, by extension. He was never the same, after the attack.”

“Dorian told me what happened in Redcliffe. I’m sorry. To lose both your parents in such a short span of time…”

Felix smiled tightly. “I’m… still coming to terms with it.” His fingers tightened around the box in his lap as if it held something precious beyond measure. “I probably don’t need to tell you this, but will you look after him for me? Dorian? I... don't think I'll be at Skyhold for long. I hate to think of leaving him here, with no one to make sure he eats and sleeps.” He bowed his head briefly. “He’s all I have left.”

“Of course I will.” Cullen leaned forward, daring to put his hand on Felix’s knee where it poked up beneath the coverlet. “Leave it to me.”

“Thank you.”

Felix seemed calmer as Cullen drew his hand away, but his knuckles were still white around the little box, and Cullen wracked his brain for something to distract him. “Tell me more about Dorian, when you were younger. Was he always so terrible at looking after himself?”

“Maker, yes!” Felix said, laughing. “I was sent away to the university when Dorian began his apprenticeship with my father, but we wrote each other constantly. I was always after him to remember to eat and sleep, and my time off was mostly spent nannying him. Between him and my father, I don't know who was worse once they got in the middle of a problem. It was like the outside world just.... disappeared.”

“So that hasn’t changed, at least,” Cullen said, thinking of the many times he'd found Dorian slumped over his books, passed out with a cup of cold tea at his elbow. He felt a pang of guilt—Felix was right, Dorian needed someone keeping an eye on him. “And the mustache?”

“Ha! It began as a joke, I think, a dare from another of my father’s apprentices. I came home for a fortnight during Wintersend and there it was, as if it had sprung up overnight. He declared that it made him look older. At the time it was more foolish than mature, but he grew into it. It… suited him.” Felix stroked his own stubbled upper lip reflexively. “It was one of the things that shocked me most, when I first saw him after that year apart. That and the hair.”

“You weren’t aware of what was going on, then.”

“No. He was with my mother and I when the attack happened, traveling between Minrathous and my family’s summer estate, and he returned to his own home immediately after to let us have time to grieve. It was months before I thought to seek him out, and by then his father had already begun circulating the story that he had perished from the taint. I was devastated, of course. But then, nearly a year after the attack, I received a missive while finishing my final year in the Minrathous Circle from Sebren, an older slave who had served the Pavus family since Dorian was a babe.” Felix’s face darkened at the memory. “He told me that Dorian was alive, being subjected to some kind of magical experiment.”

“The lyrium.”

“Yes. I pushed myself to graduate early and conspired with Sebren to free Dorian from his father’s estate. We managed it, with a little outside help, but it was a close thing. Dorian’s mother had found out somehow that very same day, and we barely got out of the sickroom before she was kicking up a fuss.”

Cullen was on the edge of his seat. “How was his absence not discovered?”

“A decoy. A body. The… branding process was not kind to Dorian’s skin, and the smell went unnoticed for a few days. By the time Danarius’ apprentice arrived to finish the job, Dorian was already free and clear.”

“Incredible. I knew the basics of what happened, but that he escaped right under his parents’ noses…”

“She still believes him dead. Aunt Aquinea.” Felix’s brow wrinkled unhappily. “We couldn’t risk telling her, it was too dangerous. Maker knows what the Venatori would have done to her—we didn’t know about the Venatori then, of course. Time passes, all becomes clear.” He yawned around the idiom, jaw cracking. “Forgive me.”

“Nonsense. I’ve kept you awake far too long.” Cullen found his feet, buzzing with questions but determined to give Felix his rest. He’d earned it. “Thank you for telling me what you did. I… Dorian isn’t very forthcoming about himself, but I’d like to know him better.”

“You should ask him,” Felix encouraged. “A few years on the run has made him secretive, but he always did like talking about himself.”

“I’ll do that. And feed him, while I’m at it.”

Felix sobered. “Thank you. I… if there’s any way I can repay you…"

“No need. Truly.” Cullen felt carefully at the bond. Dorian was in the library again, most likely—he was close by, but not too near, sedate and focused. Research, then. Before Cullen could withdraw, the bond pulsed almost questioningly. Dorian had felt him prodding. He pulled away and refocused on Felix. “It’s no hardship.”

“Well. Thank you twice over then, Commander. If there’s anything I can ever do for you, I am at your disposal.”

When Cullen left a short time later, he avoided his office and went instead to the kitchens. There were designated mealtimes in Skyhold, held buffet-style in the castle's lower hall, but the kitchens ran constantly and there was always something to scavenge for a hungry courier. Or a peckish Commander, Cullen thought with a smile as he loaded a tray with bread and cheese and fresh fruit, and departed with a nod of thanks to the attending cook.

Dorian didn't look surprised to see him, but he _did_ look surprised to see the humble meal.

“A little bird told me you forget to eat when you get too deep in your work,” Cullen explained, setting the tray on an end table piled with papers. Dorian's face cleared.

“Ah. Felix. I should have known he'd be meddling in my affairs as soon as he could sit up.”

“He's worried about you,” Cullen said, looking around for another chair. He settled for the footstool, leaning back against the shelves as Dorian looked on in bemusement. “And rightfully so. You’re going to get bedsores sitting in that chair all day.”

“I don’t sit _all_ day,” Dorian mumbled through a mouthful of bread and cheese. He tossed Cullen an apple and they munched in companionable silence, books and reports forgotten for a little while.

“I was talking with Felix,” Cullen ventured at last, earning a grunt and a raised eyebrow.

“So you mentioned.”

“I wondered if I might ask you something, ah, personal.”

“And if I say no?” His voice was guarded as he looked up from his book, but not unfriendly.

Cullen shrugged. “No harm done. It’s not really any of my business.”

“Hmm. Debatable.” Dorian slipped a bit of scrap paper between the pages and closed the tome with delicate reverence, giving Cullen his undivided attention. It was slightly unnerving. “Ask away, then, Commander, and I’ll answer if I can.”

“It’s well-known, at least within the Circles here, that raw lyrium can’t be safely handled by… ordinary people. Only dwarves and the Tranquil can manipulate it for their enchanting, because their connection to the Fade is cut off.”

Dorian was nodding along even before he’d finished speaking. “I know what you’re about to say, and unfortunately, I have found next to no explanation. Believe me, it drives me just as mad as it drives you.”

“Madder, I’m sure,” Cullen murmured, provoking a small smile.

“Just so.” Dorian pushed up one sleeve and extended his arm across the desk. The lyrium tattoos glittered in the light from the window, not glowing now but still alive, full to the brim with the potential for incredible power. “It should be poisoning me slowly from the inside out, but it isn’t. My only theory is that it has something to do with my mana channels.”

“The necromancy.”

“Or the marks thereof, yes.” Dorian cocked his head slightly, considering him. “It clearly bothers you. My specialization. It bothers all of Southern Thedas, actually, yet in Tevinter, being a death mage is no great issue. It’s something to be admired, in fact. May I ask why?”

“Ferelden Circles have taught us to associate necromancy with blood magic,” Cullen said uncomfortably. “Both of which are widely practiced in Tevinter.”

“ _Widely_ , is it? You know that blood magic is outlawed in Tevinter just as it is here?”

“That doesn’t keep it from being used.”

“True. But it’s the principle of the thing.” Dorian smirked, but it sat humorlessly on his branded lips. “Not all Tevinters are like you imagine, you know. My own father taught me to hate blood magic. The resort of the weak mind, he called it. Not that it mattered, in the end.”

“What do you mean?”

“I… well, these, of course, were not obtained through… savory means.” Dorian curled his fingers toward his palm, lightly grazing the lyrium embedded there.

“Blood magic was used on you?” Cullen felt a thrill of horror, chill and familiar, curl in the pit of his stomach. _So much screaming. So much death…_

“I can’t be certain, of course. Most of the time I was kept unconscious. Even when I was awake, they fed me something to keep me… tamed. Unaware of my surroundings.” Dorian’s knuckles turned white as his hand formed a fist, shaking slightly above the surface of the table. “Forgive me. I haven’t spoken of this to anyone before.”

“Even Felix?” Cullen couldn’t help asking.

“He knows the bare minimum. His father was involved, after all—but he idolized Gereon, as did I, and I couldn’t bear to expose him to the complete truth.” Dorian’s brow creased with old anger. “The two men I had held in the highest esteem, turning on me for the sake of their mad cause. I have to believe they thought they were doing me a service. An honor, my father said, before the process began. But I have no way of knowing, now. Gereon is dead, and my father is… out of my reach.”

Cullen could think of nothing to say to that. He stared at Dorian’s brands, then at the floor between his feet, uncomfortable in the close, dusty air. “I’ve had some experience with blood magic, as a Templar. I know it’s different from what you practice, but it is… difficult to separate the two in my mind, sometimes. I will try not to let it affect my opinion of you.”

“And what opinion is that?” Dorian inquired.

“A good one. Mostly.” Cullen smiled with half his mouth, feeling the pull of the old scar on his upper lip. The only souvenir left from his time in Kirkwall, aside from the hazy remnants of lyrium floating in his blood.

“Mostly? Commander, you wound me.”

“Hmm. You’ll survive.”

Dorian laughed abruptly, bright and clear in the gloom of their little nook. Then his eyes fell to the remnants of their midday snack, and he sobered. “You didn’t have to do this, you know,” he said quietly.

Cullen didn’t bother to acknowledge that. “Tell me what you’re working on,” he said instead, ignoring the startled look he received in response.

“It’s most likely outside your realm of understanding,” Dorian warned.

“That's all right. I like listening to you.”

Dorian looked pleased at that, smiling like a debutante being flattered by her beau. He launched into a description of his work with the arcanist, who was fascinated by his brands and wanted to try powering runes with them. Cullen, as predicted, only understood about three words in ten, but Dorian's voice was soothing and he listened contentedly until the dinner bell rang to summon them to the evening meal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't really think I was going to let Felix die, did you? That boy is too pretty to get killed off.


	6. 5.

_Hawke,_

_You should consider coming out of your room once in a while. No one here’s going to bite you. Except maybe Seeker Pentaghast, but it would only be out of love. I think she’s a bit obsessed with you. My fault, that. I’m not sorry._

_I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there’s been no sign of Fenris. The last time anyone had a location to pin on him was when he was with you. You’re certain he was coming straight to Skyhold? No pit stops or detours? He’s a great bloody beacon with those brands of his, he’s not exactly hard to miss._

_I don’t say this to worry you. You and I both know Broody can take care of himself. But we need to be realistic. He’s a hot commodity to a lot of people, Danarius or no Danarius—this business with Dorian and the Venatori has proven that. I’ll keep looking, keep sending feelers out, but it might be worth going to the Nightingale for this. The decision is yours. I’ll try and get in contact with Blondie in the meantime. I want him within a week’s march of Skyhold about as much as you do, but if anyone has an idea of Broody’s whereabouts, it’ll be him. Just try not to blow his head off if he shows up, all right? You like your friends intact and in one piece. You just don’t always remember that until after it’s too late._

_Bela and Merrill send their love. Freckles does too, probably, but it was hard to tell under all the scathing commentary. Also, don’t tell her I call her Freckles. I like my head where it is._

///

The ache was unbearable. It had begun in the midafternoon as a small, unassuming pulse behind his left eye, manifesting in the War Room as he argued with his fellow advisors over the missing soldiers in the Fallow Mire. Leliana had won that particular debate, and he had retired to his office in poor humor.

The day had just gone downhill from there. Now it was late, well past the eleventh bell, and he had been staring at the same bloody report for what seemed like ages as his stamina slowly betrayed him. His head had moved well past “aching” to a relentless pounding that ricocheted around his skull, and the remnants of it had trickled down his spine to settle in the meat of his shoulders. His fingers curled like arthritic claws around the stub of pencil he’d been using to mark the report’s crucial bits.

The candle at the edge of his desk guttered suddenly and went out. Midnight. Cullen groaned and forced his joints to release the pencil, sitting back in his chair with all the grace of an arthritic gaffer. _Maker, but the early days were easier than this._ Stomach upsets and mood swings seemed almost trivial in comparison to the unremitting decline of his body.

Before he quite knew his own intentions, he had clambered out of his chair and was walking to the tower door. He paused with one hand on the knob. It was late—though not quite late enough for the late-night revelers in the Herald’s Rest to have found their beds—and he was dressed down to tunic and jerkin, looking more like a haggard old veteran than the spritely young Commander of the Inquisition. Was he honestly considering this? Considering… seeking him out. _Dorian_.

He hadn’t considered it at all, was the problem. His body had made the decision for him to look for the one thing that could reliably cure all his ills. Or so it seemed, sometimes.

 _He’s likely in the tavern, or with Felix_ , Cullen told himself. The newest Grey Warden in Skyhold was still abed recovering from the Joining, but Dorian had been a most regular visitor in spite of frequent warnings from the attending sisters that he was “disturbing the patient’s rest.” _He’s likely in bed, if he has any sense._ The thought of Dorian in bed, asleep, stripped of his usual layers—defenses!—brought an inexplicable flush to the tips of Cullen’s ears.

The library, he decided abruptly. If Dorian was there, studying, that was all well and good—he could have a few minutes of clever conversation and hopefully stand close enough to take the edge off his migraine. And if not, well, he would turn around and come back and _attempt_ sleep. No harm done.

He was halfway across the ramparts by the time he’d reached this mental accord with himself. It was a pleasant night, at least; he tipped his head back to the frosty stars and exhaled a long plume of stress into the air. Perhaps if he was lucky, he would return to find his desk mysteriously bare and his bed freshly turned out, waiting for him.  

Then he was inside. Solas was absent from his rotunda, but it was lit softly with a few candles. Cullen floated up the stairs like a ghost, feeling inconspicuous without his armor and cloak. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation.

Dorian’s nook, when he arrived, was empty. Now at something of a loss, Cullen found he couldn’t turn around again as quickly as he’d meant to. The alcove was dark, with only a touch of starlight filtering through the leaded window, and the back of the chair where Dorian’s head would rest was cold. Cullen realized he was stroking the upholstery and jerked his hand away.

Even so, that brief touch had soothed him, just a bit. Even if it was only a trick of his mind, being here—where Dorian spent so many of his waking hours, and even some of his _non_ waking hours—was like catching a whiff of fresh air in the middle of a dusty old house. Cullen smiled foolishly and sat on the edge of the chair.

Oh, bliss. Odd to sit here, where Dorian always sat—whether through superstition or mere lack of opportunity, no one else ever used this corner of the library. The shelves surrounding it were stuffed with books on lyrium and the taint, many of them ones Cullen recognized from his requisition order. He sat back gingerly, letting the plush cushion embrace him like an old friend. Perhaps the chair knew, somehow, that Cullen was on good terms with Dorian, and could be trusted.

 _Listen to yourself_ , Cullen scolded. His eyes were shut. _You sound like a bloody fool. As if chairs were sentient._

His headache had receded, just a bit. He wriggled his toes in his boots. He thought briefly about kicking them off, about sinking his toes into the plush Orlesian rug Dorian had smuggled here, about cracking open the window for a breath of brisk mountain air. But before he could finish thinking all of those things, sleep caught him up and carried him away.

“….Commander?”

Cullen jerked awake an indeterminate amount of time later, heart in his throat. Dorian’s shadowed form stooped over him like an ominous scarecrow, robes hanging loosely off his narrow frame, one hand resting lightly on Cullen’s forearm. Through the sleeve of his shirt, the touch burned sweetly.

“Mmmnngh.” Cullen rubbed his bristly face—hadn’t he just shaved yesterday?—and sat up. “Sorry. Must’ve… lost track of time.” He peered blearily up at Dorian. “Why’rnt you in bed?”

“I could ask the same of you,” the mage said. He leaned back a little, but his hand was still there, emitting a low pulse of pleasant energy that suffused Cullen’s tired body with warmth. “Were you looking for me?”

“A… a book. Had a thought. Can’t remember now.” That sounded… sort of true. He was tired enough that it didn’t matter. “Sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” He smiled. Such a nice smile. His beard was combed and braided into a neat tail, with the slightest hint of lyrium beneath the soft black hair. Cullen looked away.

“’M in your way.”

“Not at all.” The mage hesitated, then his hand tightened its grip. “I could feel you here, in distress. And then it sort of… drained away. I wanted to know why.”

He was a little more awake, now. “Had a headache. Couldn’t sleep.” He shrugged, hoping it would put Dorian off from prying further. “Your chair’s more comfortable than my desk, it appears.”

“I know you refuse to divert resources to restoring your roof, Commander, but I’m quite certain you _do_ have a bed. Or have you made a habit of falling asleep over paperwork? That can’t be healthy.” Dorian bent and slipped one arm around Cullen’s back, coaxing him out of the chair. The press of their bodies sent a wave of relaxation through Cullen, and his head tipped of its own accord to rest on Dorian’s shoulder. “Up you get, then. It’s past your bedtime.”

“I’m not a child,” he mumbled, but it was lost in the warm wool of Dorian’s cowl.

“Hmm. Debatable.” Dorian coaxed him down the stairs and out onto the wall. He smelled like hay and snow and cinnamon where Cullen’s nose was buried in the crook of his neck, and a fount of nostalgia welled up in him for Honnleath. Then his tower was before them, and Dorian pushed his way inside, bypassing the desk entirely to bully him gently up the ladder to the loft. “Feeling better?”

“Much.” His head felt heavy, but the pain was gone. He rubbed his eyes and waited for Dorian to take his leave.

“Have you ever heard the tale of the selfish giant?”

“Um. No, I can’t say that I have.”

Dorian settled himself in the rickety chair that usually sat before the washstand and propped his feet up on the mattress. “It’s an old Tevinter servant’s tale—my nanny told it to me often when I was too busy reading or mucking about with advanced spells to play with other children. It happens that there was a giant who lived by himself in the ruins of a beautiful mansion. While the inner walls had crumbled through the ages, a magnificent wild garden had sprung up in its absence. Aster and poppy and tansy everywhere, hollyhocks against the walls, yellow button roses climbing wild, and such a sweet, heady smell surrounded the place that it was like a beacon.

“The giant went away for a while, leaving his beautiful home unattended, and when he returned some time later, he found it overrun with children. Little grubby gremlins, with their grasping hands, running riot in his garden and tearing up the flowers for their heads and bosoms—it was positively _hateful_. The giant roared and whistled, and slammed the ground, and the children fled screaming. For a little while, he was satisfied. He was used to being alone, and in fact he preferred it.

“But not at all was well in the giant’s garden. Soon the flowers began to wilt, dropping their petals even though it was the middle of summer. Frost gathered in their roots at night, and their leaves turned brown and shriveled no matter how much he watered them.

“He begged the aid of a friendly mage who lived just up the hill, but she had no good advice to give. _The garden is lonely as the heart that guards it_ , she said, but the giant had no use for riddles. So he returned to his dying garden and sat in solitude, wondering what he was doing wrong.”

Cullen snorted, interrupting the liquid flow of Dorian’s words. “That’s an easy riddle.”

“Hush, it’s a story for _children_ , you brute.” Dorian smirked and pushed back his cowl, getting comfortable. His hair was smoothed back from his face in a neat chignon, beard combed, and he looked almost respectable even in his worn-out robes. “If you’re so smart, _you_ finish the story.”

Cullen leaned forward in consideration, elbows on knees. “I suppose something happens, some sort of epiphany—like the last petal falling from a rose—and he realizes that he’s lonely. He used to not mind it, but when his garden got a taste for the energy and companionship of the children, it started to wither without it. And so he throws the gates wide to this derelict mansion, and the little brats pour in from every corner of the forest as if by magic. And the garden is revived.”

“Not as poetic as I would have put it, but not bad,” Dorian allowed.

“Is there a reason you told me this particular story?”

The mage raised one eyebrow in judgement. _Maker, he’s worse than Leliana at making me feel foolish._ “That, Commander, is an _easy riddle_.”

“I’m not lonely,” Cullen found himself saying. “Maker, I’m surrounded by people at every minute of the day.”

“Sometimes it is when we are in the midst of a crowd that we are the most alone.” Dorian gave an odd little half-smile. “Besides, what gave you the impression that the stand-in for the giant was you?”

He took his feet off the bed and stood, robes swaying. “I’ll bid you goodnight, Commander. And remember, if you ever have need…”

He held out one hand, palm-up, and let the brands glow just a little. Cullen exhaled, and realized he’d been holding his breath.

“…seek me out.”

“Stay.”

“I… what?” Dorian closed his fingers in a loose fist, trapping the glow and then letting it wink out. Cullen blushed a dull red, but the mage was already sitting back down slowly. “Another bedtime story, then?”

“No, I meant. Um. To sleep.” Dorian’s eyes widened and _Maker’s_ _breath_ , he hadn’t meant for it to sound this way. “I’m not propositioning you, I just… find it difficult to sleep when the headaches are this bad. Forgive me, it was impertinent.”

“Not impertinent at all.” Dorian reached for the clasp on his outer robe, removing it with brisk, no-nonsense motions and hanging it over the back of his chair. “I promised Cassandra I’d look out for you, didn’t I?”

“Did you?” Cullen was slightly horrified by this, but it was blurred by the strange, chaste fascination bubbling in him as Dorian stripped calmly to his shirt and breeches, kicking off his boots and sitting on the edge of the bed to peel his socks off his bony, lyrium-lined feet. It was oddly domestic, as if they did this all the time, and it calmed his initial flush of awkwardness.

“Well, sort of. I told her I’d do what I could to investigate this—” he circled his hand between them “—and I believe that includes using it to benefit both of us. You’re no use to the Inquisition in the throes of withdrawal, and no use to _me_. It’s actually very distracting when you’re having a bad spell—no pun intended. Therefore.” He smiled and laid back, humming when Cullen flipped the outer blanket over him. “At least your roof has finally been repaired. Andraste as my witness, I was ready to take up hammer and nails myself if you insisted on wallowing in such derelict quarters.”

“I doubt you’ve touched either a hammer _or_ nails in your life,” Cullen remarked. He stared at the aforementioned ceiling, following the seam of new and old wood with his eyes. He’d done most of the work himself, although a few of his men had insisted on helping, and he was proud of the result.

“Immaterial. It can’t be that difficult, can it?”

“Come talk to me when you’ve managed to slam a few blisters under your nails and we’ll see.”

“Ha. Perhaps not, then.” The bed shifted as Dorian leaned over, and the candles winked out in a single puff of air. “Try and get some sleep, Commander. Tomorrow will be here sooner than I’d prefer.”

At first Cullen was afraid that sleep would come slowly in spite of the gentle hum of lyrium at his side, placating the wild longing in his blood. He hadn’t shared a bed since his childhood, and his days of sleeping soundly through the ruckus of the Templar barracks were a thing of the past. But Dorian’s breath was a slow, measured thing to keep time by, and the comforting, familiar smell of him gentled Cullen’s mind until he was able, at last, to sleep.

///

_Ritts—_

_You’ll never guess what I just saw: Dorian Pavus, the lyrium enchanter who follows the Inquisitor about, coming out of the Commander’s tower room early this morning! I knew they were friends, everyone does. They play chess together in the afternoon, and they have that funny lyrium connection that no one really understands. The Lady Seeker has given a very little information, but most of what I know is just gossip._

_Some people say the lyrium enchanter has made the Commander his thrall, and is using him to control the Inquisitor’s decisions. I know Mother Giselle in particular is suspicious of his motives. But I’ve been working for Commander Cullen since Haven, and he doesn’t seem that changed to me. More relaxed, perhaps. Like he’s getting enough sleep for the first time in his life. I wonder why! And Messere Pavus has only ever been kind to us humble recruits. He smiles whenever he passes me on the ramparts or in the tavern, perfectly polite. So I don’t think the rumors are true._

_Anyway, this little note is turning out to be longer than my report to Commander Cullen. Maybe I’ll see you in the Herald’s Rest tonight before my watch and we can discuss it in more detail over a pint?_

_Recruit Emalie_

///

Dorian found the chess set in the library in the midst of an energetic excavation project. He was stripped down to shirt and breeches in the heat of the moment, sweat stinging in his eyes and staining the edges of his collar as he shifted an armful of dusty books. The state of the library was shameful after so long abandoned, and while much of the grunt work had already done, many of the tomes were still scattered hither and yon, stacked on top of one another for yards and yards, or else collapsed in sprawling swathes of paper and layers of grime. He and Solas had committed themselves to tidying and recataloguing, but the elf had abandoned him for some cerebral alone time. That left only him, snorting dust and trying not to curse loudly enough to disturb the rookery above his head.

Under this particular pile, though, gold was waiting to be discovered. His fingers caught the smooth edge of finely-carved wood, and when he lifted it up, it was revealed to be an ornate case made to house a chess set. Inside, incredibly, every piece was accounted for. He wiped his hands on his robes (to almost no effect) and picked through them delicately. They were old, carved painstakingly from yellowed ivory and gray-edged onyx, and well-loved: the little faces were worn from frequent handling, and the tiny labels carved into their bases— _knight, paragon, cleric, Divine_ —were almost unreadable. Instead of a King and Queen, a miniature Maker and Andraste stared severely through ivory eyes, and each side boasted an extra piece he was unfamiliar with. When he turned the black piece on its edge, he could just make out the words: _Maferath the Betrayer_.

It had been decades—centuries, perhaps—since chess sets had included a wildcard piece. A betrayer. Dorian turned the piece over in his hands, grinning at the over-exaggerated scowl Maferath sported. This called for a break from grunt work.

He stopped briefly by his quarters to change into clean robes. His hand hovered over his usual cowl and mantle, hung neatly on the hook by the door. It was a pleasant enough day, and it had been so long… reluctantly, he picked up a scarf instead, winding it warmly around his throat and chin. He paused by the mirror, vainly. With his hair tied back and the beard tucked into the folds of the scarf, he caught a glimpse of his younger self staring back, sharp-eyed and fair-faced. He sighed, clouding the glass, and left before his obscured reflection could reappear with the dissipating fog.

The gardens were largely deserted. Dorian still walked around the edge rather than straight through the center, chess set tucked under one arm and eyes on the gazebo where a table and chairs sat untouched. He was early for their game. He spread the box open and sat down, working carefully with a cloth and mild vinegar solution, and one by one the pieces shed their layers of age and neglect until they shone. The board itself was cracked down the center, but the wood casing held; he prodded it gently, and when it didn’t widen further, he decided to leave it alone. Some spirit gum would keep it from getting worse. Perhaps Solas had some he could borrow.

Idly, he wondered if Cullen was still buried in paperwork. Then, less idly, he sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, letting his lyrium hum softly to life. He couldn’t feel the other man as Cullen claimed he could with Dorian, not unless the ex-Templar was entrenched in one of his moods. But he knew there was something in the way his lyrium called to Cullen that was compelling, even alluring. Not that Cullen would ever use that word to describe their relationship, but Dorian could read faces. And oh, Cullen’s face was a treasure. Lightly stubbled cheeks, expressive eyes, soft, curling hair, and that delicious scar…

The door to the makeshift Chantry chapel banged open, startling Dorian upright. Cullen strode out, looking decidedly ruffled, and made a beeline for the gazebo.

“Stop that,” he said when he was close enough, and Dorian let his lyrium wink out obligingly. “There are less intrusive ways of getting my attention, you know.”

“But none quite so fun as this,” Dorian shot back. He grinned lazily. “Besides, it would take ages for a runner to find you, and by then I’d be bored of waiting. This is much more expedient.” He rapped his knuckles on the table. “It’s nearly time for our game, so you might as well sit. Look at this antique set I unearthed in the library.”

Grouchiness averted. Cullen sat in the other chair without prompting and picked up one of the pieces reverently. “This is exquisite. They don’t make these anymore, do they? The Betrayer sets.” It was Maferath he held, represented in shining white like some twisted redeemer-figure.

“Play a round with me?” Dorian suggested, aiming for casual. “I’ve never played this style before, but we can figure it out as we go.”

“Indeed.” Cullen was already setting up the board, white for himself and black for Dorian as usual. He dithered with the Maferath figurines before setting them on Andraste’s left, the Maker—a vague bearded fellow with a sunburst helmet—on her right. Dorian made the first move, and they were off.

“You’re heading to Redcliffe soon, I hear,” Cullen said offhandedly, eyes on the board. Dorian hid his wince in the scarf regardless. “Is the Inquisitor hoping to reestablish ties with the Arl?”

“Mm.” Noncommittal. Good. _Keep it light. Don’t think about the letter Trevelyan gave you, the tight concern in his eyes as he relayed Mother Giselle’s message_. He moved a piece and waited for Cullen’s repartee.

“It’s a good idea. The Redcliffe Arling is in a powerful location, and controls the trade flow between us and Denerim.” A companionable stretch of quiet, punctuated by a few moves back and forth. Maferath had not yet been brought into play.

Dorian toyed with a paragon before switching to a Cleric. “It’s not just that.” Maker, what was he doing?

“No?” A white knight slid forward and to the side, cornering Dorian’s Andraste.

“It’s… I… a letter. I, er, received one. From my father.”

Cullen’s hand froze as it withdrew from the board. “Your father.”

His chest felt bound as if by iron bands. He breathed through it, and reached for Maferath. Diagonal by three paces, cutting off Cullen’s advance on his Maker. “He wants reconciliation, according to the letter. But it was addressed to Mother Giselle, not to me, so there’s no telling what his true intentions might be.”

“I don’t understand. Why get the Revered Mother involved?”

“He was hoping to trick me into going to Redcliffe without prior knowledge. Apparently a family retainer is waiting to meet with me.” He thought briefly of Sebren, longsuffering and infinitely tender with a small boy whose father was never close at hand. But the elf was no retainer, just a slave. “I doubt his intentions are good.”

“Why would he want to contact you in the first place?” A humble move, one paragon taking out another, but it would clear a path for Cullen’s legionnaire in a few more moves. “I thought he’d, well…”

“Given up? Ha. He’s been biding his time, no doubt.” He countered swiftly, taking out a cleric with his ebony chevalier. “Waiting for me to come out of hiding.” His knuckles were white on the table’s edge and he withdrew them into his lap, trying to disguise the way they shook. “Mother Giselle tried to get Trevelyan in on the deception, but he refused to play along. He has agreed to accompany me to Redcliffe.”

“You’re going?”

“You don’t need to sound so outraged, Commander. The Inquisitor has sworn to protect me.” He sacrificed a paragon to Cullen’s other cleric. “Whatever this retainer tries to do to me will be swiftly and righteously punished with the wroth of Andraste’s Herald.”

Cullen snorted, eyes on the board. “You believe your father will try to force you to return?”

“I can’t fathom any other outcome. I’m not his son anymore, whatever dribble he wrote to Mother Giselle. I’m a weapon. A pawn in his political games. The Venatori, I’m sure, would pay a pretty price for me.” He was itchy under the scarf, and his fingers tapped an irregular rhythm on the table as he watched Cullen deliberate. He wanted to _strike_ , dammit.

“Then why go?” He sounded infuriatingly calm. He slid his Maker one space to the right. _What is he doing?_ “You’re safe here. In Skyhold. Your father wouldn’t be able to get within a mile of you.”

Maferath swept into the fray, decimating Cullen’s legionnaires to open straight to his Maker. Andraste stood to one side, pale and slim, flames licking at the hem of her robes. She seemed to stare directly into the tiny carved eyes of her earthly husband, white to black, and Dorian clenched his teeth as realized what Cullen had tempted him to.

“It’s my last chance,” he grunted. “I don’t dare face him alone, but this way I can confront him from a position of strength. Demand answers. Justifications. _Anything_.” He looked away as Cullen knocked his Maferath aside, Andraste tall and proud before the Maker once more. “I just need to know… why.”

Cullen was quiet for a while, and Dorian followed his lead, making his next move with more deliberation than he usually employed. Eventually he adjusted one of his knights, and Cullen took it as his cue to speak. “If you need anything… money, or…”

“Money? Surely the Inquisition has better uses for its coffers than supporting _me_.”

“No, I—I meant… well naturally the Inquisition’s resources are at your disposal, within reason, but… as your friend, I… I will do what I can to help you. Whatever that might be.”

Dorian stared down at the board in shock. “You checkmated me!”

“It’s hardly fair. You were distracted.” Cullen was smirking, just a bit. Dorian kicked his foot under the table and he outright _giggled_. “Hey! Foul play, mage.”

“Maker take you,” Dorian grumbled without heat. He scooped the pieces into the box and took his time setting them into their proper nesting places. “I appreciate your offer. But this is something I have to do alone.”

The easy grin fell off Cullen’s face in a trice. “I understand.”

 _Brilliant, Pavus. Always ruining the moment._ “Thank you.” He stared at the box, with its pretty mother-of-pearl inlay, and thought of Cullen’s hands, graceful as they manipulated the pieces with the precision and grace of a military general. Cullen’s face, quick to smile in spite of the dour cloud that seemed to follow him everywhere. When had he begun to consider this man a dear friend?

“I need to, um, attend to some things.” Cullen was half-standing, awkward, hovering between pleasure and duty. Dorian stood too, breaking the spell.

“Of course. As do I—I’m sure the library is simply pining after my attentions.” He smoothed his scarf self-consciously. “Thank you for the game, Commander. Perhaps we’ll play again when I return from Redcliffe.”

Cullen smiled easily. “Of course. I look forward to it.”

“Just so.” Dorian hovered a moment, unwilling to leave his presence quite yet. He couldn’t say his lyrium brands pained him, at least not in the way that Cullen’s withdrawal spells afflicted his body, but he couldn’t deny that being the Commander’s presence was oddly soothing. _Library. Books. Very important things._ He nodded, more to himself than Cullen, and walked away. He could feel Cullen’s stare boring into him the entire way to the keep.

///

_Curly,_

_Something happened in Redcliffe. I don’t know the specifics, but it had to do with Dorian’s father. The Inquisitor refuses to breathe a word of it to me. All I know is that he walked out of the Gull and Lantern without Dorian, and just said “he’ll meet us at Skyhold.” Well, we’ve been back a few days, and I’ve yet to see hide or hair of Sparkler._

_I’m hoping you know more than I do, because I’m worried. I trust the Inquisitor, mostly… I certainly don’t think he’d turn Dorian over to the Venatori, not without a very good reason. And I’ve wracked my brain for a good reason, believe me. Nothing about this seems right._

_I guess this is me asking you to track him down. If anyone can, it’s you._

_V_

///

The Frostbacks were almost balmy at this time of year. Even above the snowline, the wind was less fierce and the sun smiled on everything, warming Cullen under his leathers. His cloak—a smaller, furless variety that didn’t scream _Commander_ to passers-by—was slung over the saddle ridge in front of him, and the scarf Josephine had pressed on him was hanging loosely around his neck as he rode through the quiet woods. His mount picked its way steadily along the narrow game trail, which allowed his mind to wander as the day drew to a violet close.

He’d left Skyhold early that morning as the dawn watch was changing. Only Cassandra was there to see him off. She was in charge, for now while he rode to the nearest village on personal business, or so the official story said. Gossip was already flying about his sister’s newest child, in spite of all his efforts to keep his private life private—currently, betting pools were running high on whether the boy would be named after Cullen or after the Inquisitor—and so the small lie wasn’t much of a stretch.

The trip so far had been utterly peaceful, almost idyllic, and yet Cullen couldn’t relax. Under the middling breeze that kissed his cheeks, there was a bitter bite to the air, a tension that threatened to snap like a tree branch bent too far against the wind. It made the ride a stiff one as the horse picked up on his anxiety, spooking easily and refusing anything more than a mild trot.

He reached the camp as the sun was setting. Dorian had set up his tent in a shallow dell, protected from the wind by the mountain’s wooded slopes, and a fire was burning at the tent mouth. Wards were set up—bypassed easily on foot thanks to the bond—but Dorian himself was nowhere to be seen. Cullen picketed his horse within sight but out of reach of the wards and squatted before the fire, letting its heat seep into him. _Andraste guide his steps. Let him be all right._

“Cullen?”

He jumped upright, nearly falling on his arse in the snow. “Dorian. I didn’t hear you.” _Didn’t feel you_ , he corrected himself. He brushed clumps of ice off his hands onto his trousers, watching as Dorian walked slowly out of the woods toward him. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything is never all right, my dear Commander. Most things are middling, usually. Sometimes one or two things are truly wonderful.” He stopped on the other side of the fire, brushing the tent with his elbow as he folded his arms across his chest protectively. His cloak had been discarded in the warmer air of the foothills, and his cowl was thrown back, exposing a flat expression—his melodic voice sounded all wrong coming from that face. “What do you need?”

“You were delayed in your return to Skyhold. The Inquisitor said you’d be making your own way, but it’s been a week.” A week of an empty bed, too cold and too large suddenly without Dorian at his side. A week of an empty chess table, of cheerless pints in the tavern, of trailing around Skyhold feeling out of place and out of touch, the bond a faded echo in the back of his mind, haunting him. “I… Varric expressed some concern to me. He said you weren’t… yourself, when you parted ways in Redcliffe.”

“Myself,” Dorian scoffed. “I suppose the dwarf would know. He’s so talented at character dissection.”

“I wasn’t sure, at first, but then you didn’t return to Skyhold.” Cullen frowned, trying to catch the thread of their bond, but it evaded him. Dorian sidestepped around the fire and bent to gather some deadwood lying nearby. “I’m beginning to think he was right.”

“You would know, I suppose, Ser Templar. Tell me then, what horrible fate are you imagining I narrowly evaded in Redcliffe? A kidnapping? Murder?”

“I was imagining you spoke with you father and didn’t hear what you’d hoped for.”

Dorian flung the deadwood aside and turned on him, teeth bared. “Who told you about my father?”

Cullen took a step back. “Trevelyan mentioned…”

“Of course he did. Can’t keep anything to himself if it benefits _the Inquisition_.”

“Dorian, I was worried about you,” Cullen said carefully, trying to get the conversation back on track. “I was afraid that the Venatori—”

“The Venatori, bah! As if they could even touch me. They molded me into a weapon that far outclasses anything they could hope to wield against me, and for that I’m thankful. Yes. _Grateful_ to the men that did this to me, because at least now I have a defense against everything in this world that would _change me!_ ”

He flung the last words down like a gauntlet. Cullen refused to back down. “What do you mean? If not the Venatori, then what else would force you into hiding like this?”

“My father. Yes. You were right, round of applause for the smart ex-Templar.” Dorian stalked toward him, brands lit up like strands of white fire. They burned into Cullen’s brain as he got closer, and the piece of him he most loathed, that he shoved down each day against all odds, rose again to grip the hilt of his sword in preparation. “Why do you think I was sold to the Venatori in the first place? Oh, it wasn’t an honor, not for me. I didn’t volunteer. This wasn’t some selfless act meant to bring honor and glory to House Pavus _._ This was _punishment_.”

“For what?” Cullen breathed, nearly nose to nose with Dorian. His blood raced, and the only thing keeping him from lashing out was his grip on the pommel, strong and sure.

“Selfishness. Because I refused to play the part, dress up and simper and court, marry some poor girl to live in luxurious misery with, forcing us both to live a _lie._ ” He pushed away from Cullen, ricocheting, an arrow gone off course and careening toward destruction. “Because I wouldn’t be the puppet he wanted, wouldn’t hide my… preferences… he did _this_. Said my brain and talents should be put to use, and if _I_ wasn’t going to do it… he would do it for me.”

Echoes of an old conversation, held in a tent in the middle of the Frostbacks, rose up Cullen’s memory. “Preferences? You mean…”

“I prefer the company of men,” Dorian snarled. “As in _sex_. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it.”

“I’ve… heard of it,” Cullen stammered, suddenly very ill at ease. “But not much more than that.”

“Of course not. Let me guess, the precious Chantry boy has lived a life of purity, never sharing his body before his heart? How _adorable_.”

“I hardly see how that’s relevant,” Cullen said, forcing the words through gritted teeth.  His lack of experience in… physical matters was a bit of a sore spot for him, a dirty secret that seemed to fester the longer he carried it, and Dorian’s scorn bit deeper than he wanted to admit. “What would be so horrible about an arranged match? Loveless marriages happen everywhere, every day. It would have been better than what the Venatori did to you.”

“Of course you wouldn’t understand,” Dorian spat. “You have no idea what it’s like, being told it’s better to try and force a child on some faceless, nameless wife when you can barely stomach the thought of being intimate with her. Maker, you sound just like him. Just _try_ , Dorian, for _me_. Your mother will be _so disappointed._ ”

Cullen jerked back like he’d been struck. “You know nothing about me,” he growled, and the fury boiled over, filling his veins and setting his hands to trembling. An ugly flush suffused his face as shame vied for place with anger. “If I lack experience in… carnal matters, at least I’ve had the good fortune to love someone unconditionally and be loved in return. Something that seems to be in short supply in Tevinter.”

A door seemed to slam in Dorian’s face, erasing all trace of emotion. “Well, there you are. All my secrets out, curiosity satisfied.” The rage was gone, bitterness welling icily through the bond. “Or have you still not had enough? You have more power over me than any Venatori ever could—the kind of power my father only dreamt of.” He flung his arms wide. “I am at your mercy, Commander. Strike me, if you like. Order me to march and I will march. Fuck me, and I will not scream. That _stuff_ inside you will never go away. The key is there, in your blood, in your brain—how easily you could tie a noose around my neck and pull!”

The bond flared along with his brands, and Cullen’s skull ached with the force of keeping it contained. “ _I am not that man._ ” With tremendous effort, he snapped the lyrium strand that had led him to Dorian and let the cut end curl in on itself, smaller and smaller, until he could barely feel it. Dorian reeled, nearly collapsing in the snow as the bond fell mute, still present but almost undetectable.

“Keep your anger, then, and your pride.” Cullen forced himself to let go of his sword, hands shaking. “Stay here and rot in the cold, if you like, but you’ll come crawling back to Skyhold sooner or later. Because I know the truth about you, Dorian. You’re so hungry for companionship you’ll take the false affection conjured by the lyrium in your skin over anything real. And when your garden grows fallow, you’ll be back, _begging_ me to forgive you.”

Rage nearly smothered him as he stalked back to his horse, boots punching through the snow with a vengeance. His hands were almost shaking too much to pull the reins free of their picket, but somehow he loosed the animal and mounted. He tasted bile in the back of his throat—the wards behind him flamed, sealing him off from the clearing altogether. When the horse spooked and bolted, he let it, and rode blindly into the darkening woods without looking back.


	7. 6.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning at the bottom.

_Hey V,_

_What’s going on with Cullen and Dorian? They used to be joined at the hip, and now I haven’t seen them exchange two words since we left Skyhold. Cullen looks more like his old Knight-Captainy self than I’ve ever seen. It’s… unsettling._

_They aren’t having a domestic, are they? I mean, Cullen has said to me point-blank that they aren’t an item, but it’s hard to deny they have chemistry. The ranks are rife with gossip about it. I’m having the greatest time walking with the foot soldiers and listening to them talk about everything from Sister Leliana’s birds shitting everywhere to the heat to the strangely sexual tension between Bull and dragons. (I swear I’m not making that last one up. On my pinky.)_

_And, of course, the Commander and his beau. Even the nobles at Skyhold were remarking on it. They do spend an awful lot of time together, and I promise you I’m not lying when I tell you I saw Dorian leaving Cullen’s tower early one morning before anyone else was up. If the watchman saw him leave, well, there go all attempts at secrecy._

_I think we should do something about it. Them fighting and all. I bet Sera would get in on it in a heartbeat—but I won’t say anything to anyone, not until after Adamant and you give the OK. I would hate to fumble this one up. Maker knows I’m not exactly a paragon of romantic affection myself. Then again, neither are you. Why am I talking to you about this!!_

_Oh right, you bullshit it really well. Well enough to make Cassandra… never mind. I won’t give you the mental image, heh. I’ll save it for myself to enjoy on these long, lonely nights of marching in the middle of this blighted desert… literally, it’s a Blighted Desert._

_Do you think Fenris and Cassandra are alike at all? I swear they make the same sound of disgust when I say something before I think it through all the way. There’s a weird thought. I can’t imagine them meeting. So much broody all at once, my poor lovestruck heart couldn’t take it._

_Enough. This desert is driving me batty. I hope we reach Adamant soon before I really lose my marbles._

_Yours eternally,_

_Hawke_

///

The distance was unbearable. The bond was still there, but colder, empty of the lively ebb and flow of emotion and expression that had begun to move so easily between them. And perhaps more keenly felt, Dorian no longer slept by his side. Even as the Inquisition marched toward Adamant Fortress, Cullen found himself distracted by the lack. His nights were restless, and his days weary without the lyrium enchanter by his side to keep him entertained. Instead Dorian stayed close to the Inquisitor, finally a fixture in the band of companions Trevelyan kept about him at all times.

The siege itself was textbook at first. The sappers did their work well, and the main gates caved before long to the wrath of their battering ram. Cullen was able, for a little while, to put his anxieties and anger aside, and focus on the job at hand.

Then came the archdemon. Soldiers on both sides quailed beneath its fearsome breadth, crouching as it flew overhead, spitting fire and sparks, and Cullen was hard-pressed to keep some semblance of order.

He knew the moment Dorian fell. His concentration was totally centered on the battle at hand, but always there was the soft touch of the bond, even faded as it was: a comforting presence that he no longer had to think about to feel. And when it went out, like a candle doused with water, he felt it.

Oh, Maker, he felt it.

It was like something had torn loose inside him, a bone or a vital organ. He stumbled and leaned hard on his sword, gasping, all the blood sucked out of his face and fingers. Cold. It was so cold.

A demon’s fiery claws descended, only to be stopped by a griffon-emblazoned shield. Blackwall ran the monster through and shook the lava clumps off his sword before scooping his arm under Cullen’s shoulder and hauling him upright. “You hit, Commander?”

He was shouting over the clangor of battle, but his voice sounded as if it were filtering through deep water. Cullen shook his head, slowly. Not hit. Torn. Rent open. A piece of him had been ripped away, and he was never getting it back.

Blackwall shook him. “You’re white as a sheet! I’m taking you back to the gates—”

“ _No!_ ” The archdemon had fallen, but there was more to do. He must do it. _For Dorian_. His stomach lurched, and he pushed away from the Warden’s support. “No. Press on! We must hold!”

The rest of the battle passed in a blur. In the midst of the final push toward the center of the fortress, everything lit by the sickly green glow of the rift, Cullen fell back with an arrow in his shoulder. Superficial, but the pain of it woke him from the adrenaline of combat, and the gaping hole in his mind seemed to suck all the light from the world. Shades of grey blurred around him as the Wardens were pressed back—the only color was the rift, glistening like fresh viscera.

Cullen put a hand to the arrow, a clever shot that had slipped in the gap beneath his pauldron as he struck up into a wraith’s ghastly green skull. He grit his teeth. The head was barbed, but he had no other choice. He gripped the shaft and ripped it free, and his scream was lost in the sudden flare of the rift.

The bond burst back to life like an explosion. He staggered under the blow, falling to one knee—between the milling bodies fighting for their lives, he watched as they fell from the rift one by one, Trevelyan first, then Bull, Dorian— _Maker be praised_ —then Varric, and finally Hawke, all of them bloodied and weak but alive. The Inquisitor stood upright like a pillar, eyes flaming, hand held aloft until the rift swirled and snapped and was gone.

In the ensuing confusion, Cullen pushed his way through the soldiers until he reached the center knot. He didn’t even have to call his name before Dorian was throwing himself at him. They staggered, but held, and the past few weeks suddenly didn’t seem to matter, their petty argument draining away like suds in hot water. All that mattered was Dorian in his arms, in his head, breathing and whole.

“You’re alive. Oh Maker, you’re alive,” Cullen mumbled, but the words were lost in the great swath of Dorian’s wool cloak. The mage clung tightly to Cullen’s pauldron, shaking—or perhaps it was the Commander who couldn’t prevent the tremors that wreaked havoc on his grip. The low lyrium hum that hovered in the back of his mind whenever Dorian was near had become a dull roar with the resurgence of their connection, and it obliterated all logical thought.

“You’re bleeding.” Dorian pulled away, fingers red.

“I… an arrow.” Cullen rolled the offending shoulder, wincing at the tug of heat where the arrow had torn flesh. It didn’t hurt nearly as much as the bond going silent had. “I’ll be fine.”

Dorian met his eyes. They were shining with lyrium, almost ghostly white in his face, and they bored into him as if the mage were looking into his soul. Then he blinked and stepped back, toward the Inquisitor, and the moment was broken.  Cullen sagged a little bit. _Alive. He’s all right. You’re going to be all right._

///

_Hawke,_

_You can’t do that to me, Maker’s balls. I swear if you’d stayed behind with that bloody thing I would’ve stayed too, and then we’d both have gone down together like fools. I’m sorry about Stroud, of course, but losing you would have destroyed me. If not directly, then later, when Broody came to skin me for letting you sacrifice yourself like a damned idiot._

_I’m not done yelling yet, but I’ll do the rest of it in person. You deserve to be given a good shaking after that. But since I’m trying to keep my blood pressure down, I’ll change the subject._

_You left pretty quickly, so you didn’t see what I saw. Curly and his mage, I mean. Being reunited. If it weren’t happening right in front of me I would’ve have believed it. They were a breath away from snogging each other senseless, I swear on my honor as an upstanding member of the Merchant’s Guild._

_I know you heard what the demon said to Sparkler. Grim stuff. If I wasn’t so thrown by its taunts towards me I might’ve paid a little more attention. I guess that’s something he and I have in common—shit parents, and unrequited love. Don’t tell him I said so, but I feel for him. Those two are worse than Freckles and her guardsman sometimes, I swear to Andraste. What will it take to get them to see reason? Unless they already do, of course. Now there’s a romance for the ages: the forbidden love between a Tevinter lyrium enchanter and the ex-Templar Commander of the Inquisition. I bet their reunion was even steamier in private, heh._

_Don’t let your imagination get too far ahead of you! I know how you enjoy your daydreams of lithe lyrium warriors and nubile shieldmaidens, or whatever. I shudder to think what you and Isabela would cook up about Curly and Sparkler given half the chance. And no, you’re not allowed to eavesdrop on the Commander’s tent. Maker’s breath, Hawke, give them a little privacy! (But if you happen to hear anything particularly juicy, well… pass it my way, won’t you?)_

_I’m going to sleep for a year. Don’t wake me up until we reach Skyhold, on pain of exploding arrows in your general direction._

_Yours,_

///

The moment the tent flap dropped behind them, Dorian was in Cullen’s arms again, and this time he didn’t pull away. He smelled like blood and sweat and lightning, like the Fade. It filled Cullen’s nose and made his blood boil to think of what might have happened to him without Cullen there to be his shield.

“Don’t you dare do that again,” he whispered, and as foolish as it was, Dorian didn’t laugh in his face. Instead he burrowed closer, beard scratching against Cullen’s neck, and even that small piece of discomfort was the best feeling in the world.

“I won’t. I wouldn’t, not even if I wished to, not even if I was capable of it.” Dorian’s voice was gutted. It tore holes in Cullen’s crumbling defenses. It sang through him like lyrium, and he swore in that moment that the sound of that voice was the only thing he needed to keep him alive.

Gradually, the tumult in him calmed. Dorian seemed to feel it, too; he withdrew slowly form Cullen’s arms but kept hold of his hands, watery-eyed but calm. Cullen gathered his breath, pulled the words from the deepest parts of himself, and let them go.

“I would have followed you if I could, to the Black City and back.”

A variety of expressions crossed Dorian's face before settling on a tentative, earnest smile. “Hopefully that won't be necessary any time soon. But... the sentiment is appreciated, Commander.” _Commander._ Once only a title, but now a term of friendship, of endearment. He squeezed Cullen's hand tightly, leaning their foreheads together. Cullen closed his eyes. This close, the lyrium was a sweet, soft whisper, cloaking him in comfort and familiarity like a worn, well-loved quilt. He could feel Dorian's warmth radiating again him, smell the faint licorice tea on his breath. Maker, but he needed this man.

The tent flap was pushed open without warning and Cullen yanked himself away from Dorian's hold. The Iron Bull cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt, boys. Inquisitor want to talk to the Commander about the Wardens. Although if you wanted me to go back and say you were occupied with _reuniting_ , I'm sure he would be sympathetic.” The qunari gave a wolfish grin.

Cullen cleared his throat. “That won't be necessary. I'm coming now.”

“Well. Not _now_.” Bull chuckled and ducked out again. Cullen scowled at the floor. Leave it to Bull to make light of the depth of friendship between himself and Dorian.

Dorian was frowning, too. “You know they gossip about us, Rutherford. Surely it's not only just starting to bother you.”

“I… no, it's not that.”

“Not what?”

“I don't care about that, Dorian. About you being that way.”

The mage crossed his arms, and the distance between them suddenly seemed to stretch for miles in the narrow tent. “Oh really. We're doing this now, then?”

Cullen grabbed at his nape in frustration, turning away. “Dorian, honestly. Not everything has to be so difficult. You're my friend and I care for you greatly. Your preferences make no difference to me. I only wish our friends wouldn't… belittle what we have by insinuating we're intimate.”

Dorian's face was stone. “Because being intimate would somehow cheapen our friendship, I suppose.”

“Yes! …what? No, I didn't mean—” He closed his eyes. “I can't discuss this right now. The Inquisitor needs me.”

“Ah, yes, the Inquisitor needs you,” Dorian murmured. For a fleeting moment, he looked immensely sad, but the expression was quickly sealed away. “Go along then. Be a good Commander and see what he wants.”

Cullen shrugged into his cloak, jaw clenching, but he forced himself to pause before fleeing entirely. “This isn't over, Dorian,” he said to the tent flap. “Whatever this is between us, I want to fix it. All right?”

Silence. Then a hand on his back, and Dorian's profile at the corner of his eye. “Likewise.” The mage nodded once, and slipped into the night like a shadow. Heart heavy, Cullen sighed and followed.

///

_Hey Boss,_

_I was thinking about what you said the other day, and I’m game. I wasn’t sure, at first, because word around Skyhold was that he was fucking the Commander. But I did a little research of my own, and I don’t think that’s the case. They’ve got it bad for each other, of course, but one’s too buttoned-up and the other’s too lacking in self-esteem to see it. Do I feel bad for them? Yeah. Does it make me want to fuck the daylights out of that sparkly-ass Vint any less? Not a chance._

_Like we discussed, one-time only, purely for a little stress relief. After Adamant, I think we could all use it. Pavus included. So, you tell me when and where, and I’ll make all the arrangements. I’m thinking a little bondage, a little breath-play, nothing he isn’t comfortable with. You can take the reins, I’ll just be the muscle. I’m good at that._

_And if it helps one or the other of them get their head screwed on properly, well, that’s just a bonus. In the end, you’re the only one for me, kadan._

_Bull_

///

The march back to Skyhold was long and tedious, and left Cullen with far too much time to think. Specifically about Dorian. The other man spent most of his time with the Inquisitor and Bull, although sometimes he left his horse tied to one of the Inquisition wagons and walked alongside the winding caravan with Solas, their heads bowed together as they talked. Discussing the Fade, no doubt. Solas was infinitely jealous of Dorian's experience, and had endless questions for him on the subject. But regardless of where he walked or rode during the day, Dorian always returned to Cullen's side at nightfall. They didn’t discuss their argument again. It wracked at Cullen’s mind during the day, filling the numb hours with fury and despair by turns, but when evening fell and Dorian bounced into the tent full of quips and theories on every subject under the sun, all of Cullen’s worry melted away.

Then, one night, he was late. Cullen had long since finished handing out watch assignments and was lying on his back in their cot, staring idly at the ceiling, when  he realized Dorian had not materialized during the final rush. His absence, which had escaped him thus far, was suddenly unavoidable. He tried to settle the pang of worry and rolled over, the narrow cot now far too roomy.

His heartbeats were loud in his ears without Dorian’s whiffling nighttime breathing. Reflexively, reminiscent of many sleepless nights as a boy in the unfamiliar Templar barracks, he started counting them. One-two, three-four. His brain tuned out the numbers, feeling only the rhythm, and he burrowed his cheek deeper into the pillow.

He didn’t realize he was getting hard at first. The quiet was so oppressive, the sounds of his body so comparatively loud, that it almost escaped his notice entirely. Then something startled him—a heavy footfall outside, a horse nickering nearby—and when he jerked to full awareness he found himself well on his way to genuine arousal. Heat soaked his cheeks and pooled in his groin, little flares of interest that stirred his prick against the sheets.

Cullen shifted in his bedroll and let out a small sound of pleasure. He was still alone in the tent. Unusual, but Dorian was likely caught up with Solas at some campfire. For now, he was by himself, in bed, and where was the harm in letting himself have a little pleasure to help him sleep?

Mind made up and ears alert for anyone’s approach, he rolled fully onto his stomach and slipped his arm beneath him. His knuckles pressed against the canvas and his palm curled just a little, giving himself a sturdy surface to rock against. It wasn’t going to take much—he was already fully hard, sweat-damp, with the slightest bit of slick leaking through his smalls to wet his fingers. He pushed his hips against his hand and caught his breath, mouth agape against the pillow. Maker, but it had been ages since he’d done this.

Too long, really. He was used to the discomfort of unfulfilled arousal; he’d never had the courage to find release in the crowded Templar barracks as a young man, and now, when Dorian shared his bed more often than not, the warm body pressed against his at night made mornings awkward, sometimes. But he was discreet about his body’s interest, never touching himself or bringing himself relief with Dorian so close, and the other man had never seemed to notice the occasional bout of “morning wood” he suffered. They were both men, after all, not sniggering boys. Their own biology was no longer a surprise to them.

He squeezed himself a little tighter, fingers not quite circling his girth. Andraste’s grace, he hoped Dorian didn’t walk in anytime soon. He giggled into the pillow, a wave of fond amusement crashing over him, and his breath caught in a gasp at a sudden, unprovoked spike of pleasure.

Wait. He surged upright, braced on hands and knees with the blanket rucked around his hips. Cold air rushed in against his body as he fought with himself, catching the thread of lyrium in his veins and following it, carefully, terrified of breaking it even as his chest heaved with arousal.

 _Dorian_. He was somewhere near, a few tents away, and he wasn’t alone. Lust surged through him again, fighting against the scrambling of his thoughts. Then the realization clicked into place, and all heat and pleasure wilted into nothing, leaving him chilled, tacky with drying sweat. Dorian was in someone’s tent, receiving pleasure at their hand, and Cullen had felt it. Somehow, through the bond…

He cut the thought off abruptly, feeling slightly ill. He hadn’t known, _couldn’t_ have known, but a small part of him still felt as if he’d violated Dorian’s trust in him. He’d touched himself with a hand spurred by Dorian’s need, sighed another’s sighs into his pillow. Cullen wiped shaking hands on his smallclothes and slipped out of bed.

There was a bowl of fresh water he’d saved for Dorian’s use sitting on the makeshift war table. He dipped his discarded shirt into it and scrubbed himself raw, trying to rid himself of all traces of desire. The bedroll smelled vaguely musky, and he shook it out, wishing for a packet of dried lavender or even some crumbled elfroot to mask the scent. With nothing to hand, he reluctantly pulled on a fresh shirt and a clean pair of trousers before sitting down to go over some reports. The bond glowed in the back of his mind, beckoning, but he clamped down on it firmly, shoving it away. He couldn’t. He couldn’t take advantage.

He was still wide awake an hour or so later when the tent flap opened and Dorian slipped inside. Cullen startled, nearly knocking over his inkwell, and blinked dry eyes at the equally startled mage. He looked  a bit rumpled, hair untidy and beard braided sloppily. There was a deep purple-red mark on the side of his neck. Cullen couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“Um, hello,” Dorian said at last, teeth flashing in the yellow lamplight. “I wasn’t expecting you to be awake.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to be out so late,” Cullen replied before he could stop himself. “Er, sorry. That sounded rather… motherly of me.”

“Ha! Not anything like _my_ mother, I assure you.” He leaned over the flimsy desk, hands lightly bracing his weight as he loomed over Cullen. “Please tell me you’re not still working.”

“Er… I might be,” Cullen admitted sheepishly. With the man himself before him, his earlier turmoil seemed to fade. They were both adults, navigating this odd emotional connection completely blind. A few missteps were to be expected. And the mage was hardly acting the injured party—it was likely he hadn’t even noticed Cullen’s brief sortie into Dorian’s head.

Then Cullen’s eyes fell to Dorian’s wrists, exposed slightly where the stretch of his arms caused his sleeves to ride up. Beneath the silvery lines of lyrium, which never seemed affected by bumps and scrapes, blue-black bruises circled both wrists, layered over with red as if they’d been rubbed raw by some kind of binding. Cullen’s spine went stiff as a board. Maker, surely not…

“Well, I’m for bed, I think. My night was rather—hey!”

Quick as lightning, Cullen reached out, seizing Dorian's wrist in a firm but unrestricting grip as the man moved past him. “What is this?” His voice was nearly a growl. Dorian froze like a startled hare before slowly relaxing.

“Don't fret, Cullen, it was consensual.”

“ _Consensual_? Then this is from...”

“The Bull, yes.”

“The _Iron_ Bull?” Surely he’d misheard.

Dorian smiled gently, almost pityingly. “It's what he likes. Trevelyan too. It's not what I prefer, normally, but an evening of it now and then suits me fine.” When Cullen still hesitated, Dorian patted his shoulder and knelt to undo his boot buckles. “They were perfectly gentle, all appearances to the contrary. I just pulled a little too hard on the ropes.”

Both of them at once? Cullen flushed to his hairline at the image. “That doesn't seem fair to you.”

“How so? I get some excellent stress relief with no strings attached, and afterward we can go right back to being friends. Everyone wins.”

“That's what you... prefer, then? No strings attached?”

Dorian's jovial expression faded just a bit. “On occasion. I'm not pining away for the Inquisitor, if that’s what your worried about. _Or_ his pet qunari.”

Cullen cleared his throat. “I just want to be sure you're being treated with the respect you deserve.”

“ _Now_ you sound like my mother.” Dorian fussed with his boots, lining them up precisely at the foot of the cot, and then climbed into bed. The discussion was clearly over. Still, Cullen couldn't help but stare at the livid mark just visible over the edge of the blankets, discomfort seething like snakes in his belly.

When he made no move to join him, Dorian huffed a dramatic sigh. “Cullen. This puritanical disapproval really doesn’t suit you. Come to bed. I cleaned up afterward, you know.”

Cullen bit back his words of protest. He could hardly understand his own reasons for being so upset, let alone explain them to Dorian. He blew out the lamp and fumbled with his boots in the dark. Eventually, evidently grown tired of waiting, Dorian’s soft snores filled the tent. Cullen swallowed his pride and climbed in behind him, determined to try and sleep. It didn’t find him for a very long while, and when it did, his dreams were full of torment.

///

_Curly,_

_Breathe. He’s alive. You’re alive. When everything else is going to shit, remember that._

_I still don’t know why you came to me for advice, considering my own love life is a bit of a mess. You know the bullshit I churn out for the Seeker all comes from other people, right? Not me. Never me. I couldn’t shit out a happy ending for myself if I tried for days. But maybe I’m good at giving happy endings to other people. Might as well give it a go._

_You said you weren’t worthy. That you represent everything he’s been running from, everything he’s feared since leaving home. I call bullshit on that. Mages did that to him, Curly, not Templars. His father betrayed him for Corypheus’ cause, because he couldn’t understand that the boy he’d raised had become a man with opinions and predilections of his own. Never thought anyone would find something worse than blood magic to do to a person, but leave it to Tevinter. If I may be so bold, you represent none of that. I think you represent the exact opposite._

_I don’t know what it was like for you, when we fell into the Fade, but I saw what happened to Dorian. I never knew he had that much emotion in him—he’s like the posterboy of using sarcasm to cover up real feelings. While the rest of us were still reeling, he was shaking the Inquisitor and screaming into  his face to reverse it, to take us back, and Maker help him if he didn’t do it now. Bull had to clobber him over the head a bit to get him to shut up. _

_You read the Inquisitor’s official report, and I’m sure Dorian made some passing reference to our little Fade-vacation, but neither of those things are good at giving straight answers. Let me tell you: it was terrifying. Worse than the Deep Roads, which I hate. Worse than watching Meredith turn into a red lyrium demigod and tear the Gallows apart firsthand. The fear wasn’t loud or obvious like that. It was slick. It got into your head and laid out your darkest innards for everyone else to see. Before you ask, no, I’m not telling you what it said to me. But I’m a bit of a bastard, so I’ll tell you what it said to Dorian._

_“So alone, oh darling boy, where’s your mum and daddy? Got bored of playing with their doll? Too bad your lion isn’t here to rescue you. No handsome prince. Didn’t they tell you? There are no fairytale endings for monsters.”_

_Guess what, Curly? That’s you. You’re the only thing standing between Dorian and his fairytale ending. You’re his greatest fear._

_Let me rephrase, before you panic: you aren’t his greatest fear. The belief that you don’t love him, that you will never love him, that you see him—before anything else—as a monster, is his greatest fear. And because you aren’t a prince, just a backwater boy from Honnleath with a sword and a fancy suit of armor, I know you aren’t going to be able to tell him anytime soon. _

_I’m not calling you a coward. I’m just being realistic. There’s no way in the Deep Roads that you’re going to put down this letter, wake up your pretty mage out of a sound sleep, and tell him you love him. Fuck it, Curly, you couldn’t even say the word out loud to me_. _But Dorian doesn’t want a prince—he wants you. So if you can’t tell him, or me, or any other bloody person in this Maker-damned Inquisition, tell yourself. Maybe if you say the words often enough, they won’t terrify you quite so much._

_There’s a thought. I wonder what the fear demon would have said to you. But that’s none of my business._

///

Cullen put down the letter with shaking hands. Across the campaign table, just barely touched by the light of the oil lamp, Dorian was an indistinct lump under the blankets. If he strained, he could hear him snoring just a little bit, face pushed into the pillow and feet hanging off the end because he could never lie still in bed without Cullen’s weight to ground him.

_Maker give me strength._

He folded Varric’s letter up tightly and slipped it into the toe of his discarded boot. He would find a better hiding spot in the morning. With practiced movements, he blew out the lamp and shed his outer clothing before standing at the edge of the cot, thighs braced against the wooden frame. Dorian was close enough to touch. Even in the dark he could make out the rise and fall of his shoulders, the tangle of hair spilled like ink across the pillow.

Cullen got into bed as slowly and silently as possible. Dorian didn’t wake, but as he wriggled deeper into the warmth of the bedroll, the mage shifted to accommodate him. Somehow, between his own adjusting and Dorian’s somnambulism, he found himself wrapped up in Dorian’s embrace, nose to the mage’s collarbone, one arm slung around his narrow waist. Dorian smelled of sleep and salt, faintly unwashed, but not unpleasant. He smelled like a man. Cullen squeezed his eyes shut and thought of Varric’s letter.

_Dorian doesn’t want a prince—he wants you. Maybe if you say the words often enough, they won’t terrify you quite so much._

Cullen’s lips parted against Dorian’s throat, but the words wouldn’t come. He swallowed hard. Breathed.

 _I love you_.

In his arms, Dorian snored. With his heart beating calmly for the first time in what felt like hours, Cullen let sleep finally claim him.

///

_Rutherford—_

_Apologies are unnecessary, but thank you for the letter. I admit I'm better and talking than writing, when it comes to conversations like these, but we can't all have such gifted tongues. _In any case, I detest confessions, so I would like to get this one over with.__

_The things you said to me that day—they cut deeply, but only because they were true. My only defense against your difficult truths were hateful lies, and you should know that none of it means anything. You're not my father, and neither am I, whatever the Fear Demon might have said._

_I am not accustomed to unvarnished honesty. Lies are easier when you're a fugitive, but sometimes I think I've become too good at it. I've been running for so long—from my past, from myself. From you. It's only now that I begin to realize how tired I am of it. So. No more. I apologize for what I said to you then, and I will strive to be a better man and a better friend, one deserving of your respect. Of the many people I've crossed paths with in my life, you're one of the few whose good opinion I crave. Felix is the other, of course, but don't tell him I said so. His head is big enough as it is._

_If I thought you would accept it, I would give you the coin back. Your brother meant it for you, and it has done its job well thus far, but you're nearly as proud as I am and I know you would refuse. So I'll keep it, for now. Hold onto it until you come to your senses and realize a man like you needs all the help he can get._

_Your friend,_

_Dorian_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of Dorian/Trevelyan/Bull in this chapter of it isn't your thing.


	8. 7.

_Esteemed Members of the Inquisition,_

_I deeply regret being unable to greet you in person. My sister’s involvement with the Grand Masquerade requires that I begin my stay at Halamshiral a few days in advance. I hope that my time here will prove beneficial to the cause of peace and justice, for the Inquisition and for all of Orlais._

_Consider yourselves at home—my chateau is your chateau. My servants will attend your every need, and my seneschal will be happy to deal with any pressing concerns of a political nature. I trust you will enjoy your stay. I look forward to meeting all of your representatives, and especially the Lord Inquisitor Himself, when you arrive at Halamshiral two nights hence. Until that time, may Andraste guide you and the Maker’s eye smile kindly on your cause._

_Ever your humble servant,_

_Duke Gaspard de Chalons_

///

Cullen emerged from the Chateau de Chalons to find his fellow advisors already waiting, exchanging quiet conversation in the crisp evening air. Josephine turned to greet him with a smile, sage green skirts rustling, and he took her gloved fingers lightly in his own.

“Josephine, you look ravishing this evening.”

The ambassador smiled sweetly as he bowed over her hand. “Why, Commander, you’re too kind. You look quite the picture yourself.”

Cullen grimaced and tugged at the collar of his uniform. It was an uncomfortable blend of Orlesian material and Fereldan style, but not all the tailoring in the world was enough to keep the sleek red wool from pinching at his throat. Everything about the finery was awful. The useless gold-braid pauldrons were too light on his shoulders, the kid gloves too thin and buttery, the click of his heels too sharp. He felt like a dandy being paraded about at his first _salon_.

Leliana laid a soft hand on his arm, which was folded awkwardly behind his back. “Josie is right, my dear, you look rather dashing. I know you’re uncomfortable, but it’s only for an evening.”

At least their spymaster seemed to be enjoying herself. She was elegantly attired in a Fereldan-style gown of purple and dove gray, the lines of the bodice mimicking the armor she favored. The ever-present hood was missing, but a fine grey veil fell over her short hair and was swathed around her shoulders. Her eyes gleamed at him wickedly, and she lifted her chin to speak over his shoulder.

“Don’t you think he looks dashing, Ser Dorian?”

Cullen turned and nearly choked. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting: a slightly less ragamuffin version of Dorian, perhaps, with a combed beard and robes that didn’t look as if they’d been used as nesting material for mice. With Leliana and Josephine on the case, he should have known better.

The man before him was practically a stranger: tall and lean, and wrapped in some complicated Tevinter ensemble of deep midnight blue velvet and cloth-of-gold brocade. One arm was left bare by the asymmetrical cut, the wrist and bicep stacked with lazurite-studded arm bands. The tunic fell to mid-thigh and was slit at either side, showing off snug leather trousers stamped with a tiny herringbone pattern, and instead of practical boots, his feet were graced with elegant ankle-high shoes tipped in solid gold.

Cullen’s eyes dragged sluggishly up to that smirking face, clean-shaven for the first time in his memory. The lyrium lines carved into his dark skin were stark and unavoidable, tracing the suggestion of a skull over the smooth cheekbones and full mouth. His hair, too, had been trimmed, shaved to a neat stubble over his ears and pulled back into a smooth knot at the back of his head. Lazurite studs twinkled in both ears and in a delicate hoop threaded through his septum. The stranger smirked and sauntered toward them, one ring-adorned hand propped casually on the hilt of a jeweled, decorative sword.

“Good evening, Commander. Like what you see?”

Cullen blinked rapidly, ignoring the giggles Josephine was muffling unsuccessfully into her feathered fan. “Er, hello Dorian. I wasn’t expecting you to be…” _Gorgeous. Heart-stopping. Ridiculously beautiful._ “…here.”

“The Inquisitor requested my presence, of course.” He waved one hand airily, as graceful as a bird in flight. Maker’s breath, who _was_ this man? “I have experience in courts like this, not to mention my particular brand of combat which makes me… invaluable.” He winked one silver eye. Sweet Andraste, was he wearing kohl? He _was_.

“I can’t be seen leaving the ballroom,” Cullen began, but Dorian was already waving him off.

“I know, and I wouldn’t expect you to, although I’m sure you’d just _love_ an excuse to get your hands dirty.” _Maker preserve me_. “Leliana assures me that the palace isn’t nearly large enough to stretch our link to its limits.”

“Oh goody, everyone’s here.”

Cullen managed to tear his eyes away from Dorian long enough to watch as Varric and the Inquisitor strode in, one grinning fit to burst and the other grim and watchful. Behind them came Cassandra, miserable as a wet cat in her ceremonial Seeker uniform. The Chanty sunburst blazed in gold embroidery on a white field, pierced with the eye and sword of the Inquisition. It was the perfect reminder to stop acting the lovestruck fool and be the Commander he was supposed to be.

“Indeed,” Leliana was saying. “The carriages will be here shortly. In the meantime, if I may give one more lesson on court etiquette…”

Cassandra growled in disgust. “We have had more of these lessons than a bereskarn has quills,” she announced, “and I, for one, am fed up. If you’re that worried, pray to the Maker and his bride, for nothing else can help us now.”

Leliana seemed ready to protest, but Josephine laid a hand on her arm in consolation. “It will be fine, Lill. Cassandra is right. We must trust in the Maker. And look, the carriages are here.”

Cullen wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed when Dorian was put in the carriage with the Inquisitor and the others while he road with his fellow advisors. Eventually he settled on relieved. Sitting in such close proximity to his friend while he looked… like that… would not be good for his concentration, or his nerves. The evening ahead was going to be difficult enough without Dorian’s quick wit and heated looks befuddling him.

Another giggle broke his reverie, and he glared across the carriage at his companions. “Something amuses you?”

“Oh, no, Commander,” Josie assured him, so sweetly and sincerely he almost believed her. Almost. That woman was born and bred playing the Game, and he had no defense against her. “Are you not pleased with how well everyone looks? Even if Cassandra does look a bit irritable, but that’s just her natural expression. And Lord Dorian looks _so_ charming. Leliana, you really did work wonders. I wasn’t sure you could do it.”

“It was hardly a great leap,” Leliana demurred, hands folded primly in her lap. “He is the son of a Magister, after all. He was brought up in the lap of luxury. One only needs to hear him speak to see that he was born for this sort of thing.”

Cullen shifted in his seat uncomfortably. In his pinchy uniform and without the solid weight of a sword at his hip, he had never felt more inadequate.

“Still. I thought it would take Andraste herself descending from the sky to convince him to shave that horrid beard of his.”

“Not as difficult as you might imagine. I’ve heard him complain of its itchiness often enough. His Warden friend informed me that he once had the most elegant mustache, but sadly that will no longer be possible.”

“The lyrium,” Cullen muttered. He didn’t miss the sharp look both women sent his way before they quickly reassumed their girlish veneers.

“Quite so,” Leliana confirmed, fussing with the fall of her gauzy veil. “It’s a pity it limits his options so much, but I find a good razor and a little cleverness with his hair was all he needed.”

An absurd image was conjured in Cullen’s mind of Dorian sitting on a stool, draped in his tatty robes, while Leliana snipped away at his scraggly beard. He snorted rather ungracefully and covered his mouth with one hand. “Forgive me. I had a… thought.”

“Maker preserve us, a _thought_?” teased Josephine. “I thought the entire point of this effort was to prevent such things.”

“Josie!” Leliana hissed, but Cullen ignored them both in favor of looking out the window at the purpling sky. They weren’t so opaque as they believed, it seemed. Regardless of their conniving, he had a job to do tonight, and he would see it done, in the Inquisitor’s name.

///

_Hey Sister,_

_Well done with Sparkler. Curly looks like someone gave him a pommel strike to the solar plexus. I’d feel bad for the guy, but I’m too busy admiring your ruthless fashion sense. V._

* * *

 

_Passing notes like children is hardly appropriate, Varric. Yes, I saw you. I’m busy keeping my little sister out of trouble, but if you—or anyone—draws unwelcome attention to the Inquisition’s representatives tonight, I’m laying the blame on your doorstep. –J_

* * *

 

_Kadan. Bull. Darling. I appreciate what you’re saying, but try to have a bit of decorum. I’m trying to concentrate, and your smart remarks about Dorian’s “tight ass” isn’t helping matters. If I step on one more gilt-edged toe on the dance floor, the Court will have me thrown out and then all this work will be for nothing. Maybe try doing your job, and watch out for my ass. Yours, etc._

* * *

 

_Josie: I’d do this myself but I can’t get away from the Comtess and her horrible shoes. Cullen looks like he’s drowning under the weight of Orlesian adoration, and while it is amusing, we won’t be laughing once he snaps and breaks someone’s arm. Send our lovely lyrium enchanter over, won’t you? I’m sure he’d be delighted to rescue Cullen from the wily clutches of matchmaking mamas. L._

* * *

 

_Varric,_

_Are you seeing this?? I hope you’re taking notes, this mage-in-shining-armor schtick is worthy of one of your trashy romances. Even Cassandra would agree, if she weren’t hiding out somewhere. Maybe I’ll ask her to dance—after I stop laughing over Dorian’s sly arse-grope. I think Cullen’s redder than his uniform._

_–Hawke_

* * *

 

_Bull—stop sniggering. He was in desperate need of rescue, and I was the only one willing. The rest of you were just pointing and laughing and ignoring the poor man’s plight. It’s not my fault he’s handsome enough to… never mind. You should all be ashamed._

* * *

 

_You promised you wouldn’t abandon me to the Orlesian vultures, Cassandra, and yet you disappear at the first sign of dancing. I won’t forgive you for this. Dorian had to rescue me from a masked nobleman’s wandering hands—I’ve never been so humiliated in my life. I expect at least two waltzes after this. –C_

* * *

 

_Commander,_

_Forgive my inattention; I was busy helping the Inquisitor. We all had our parts to play. At least the worst is over. No, I take that back—the worst is just beginning. Ugh. I despise frivolity, and you may tell Josie I said so._

///

Cullen escaped the celebratory revels as soon as he could, hoping to breathe easier in the small garden near the guest apartments. But he wasn’t the only one with designs on solitude. A tall, slim figure stood by the fountain, fiddling with something in one hand. Cullen backed up, intending to beat a hasty retreat, and paused when the bond gave a faint tug. It was Dorian.

The mage hadn’t seen him, yet. He was busy spinning a coin between his fingers. He muttered something Cullen couldn’t quite hear at this distance and flipped the coin into the fountain. It made a small _plink_ and disappeared smoothly beneath the rippling water.

“Making wishes?” Cullen asked, approaching from behind.

Dorian startled but recovered quickly, turning on one heel to face him with a genuine smile. There was a flicker of movement as he tucked something small and coppery in his pocket, very different from the gleaming silver caprice coin he’d just tossed into the fountain. “Cullen. I didn’t realize you were so close.”

“Losing your touch.”

“Just preoccupied. Wishing, as you say.” Dorian turned back to the fountain, hips canted at an elegant angle. He was a wholly different creature tonight, full of pomp and elegance, but there were traces of the man he knew clinging to him still: the wrinkle of his brow, the shadow of gravitas that clung to him even now, cloaked as he was in the trappings of high society. Cullen stepped closer, gazing into the fountain.

“I suppose it would be bad luck to ask what you were wishing for.”

“Bad luck, and supremely bad manners.” Dorian smirked and turned to face him, the shadow falling away. He looked every inch the spoiled prince—or would have, if it weren’t for his eyes, silver and direct as ever, betraying the man behind the gilt façade.

“Is this what you were like back home?” Cullen asked impulsively. “Before all of this?”

“Before the lyrium, you mean? A little.” Dorian sighed in a put-upon manner. “I was significantly more handsome, then.”

“I highly doubt it,” Cullen murmured, then flushed at his own boldness. Delighted, Dorian took a few steps toward him until they stood but a handspan apart.

“Is that so, Commander? You flatter me.” He offered one gloved hand, palm up. “A dance? For your kindness.”

“I, er, don't really...”

“Nonsense. A simple Ferelden couplet, then. Surely they taught you Templars _some_ manners.”

“Not much call for dancing in a Circle.” Still, Cullen allowed the other man to draw him close, blushing to the tips of his ears. “Although perhaps it would have been an improvement on the atmosphere.”

“Dancing improves many things,” Dorian agreed. He maneuvered them slowly in a sweeping circle, their boots scraping on the flat marble paving stones of the promenade. Cullen followed, a little unsteady first; but Dorian was a patient teacher, and he soon found his feet.

“Surely this isn't dancing so much as... swaying vaguely in place.”

“There's a rhythm,” Dorian said, affronted. “Just because you're incapable of feeling it...”

Cullen smiled. “You're doing such a good job of taking me in hand, I don't want to risk upsetting it.”

“Taking you in hand, am I?”

“You know what I mean.”

Dorian chuckled at Cullen’s put-upon expression. “Do I?” he mused. “I know what I'd _like_ you to mean, but I'm not sure it's the same thing.”

“It could be.” Cullen swallowed, stomach swooping like a pontoon tossed by the Waking Sea. “I don't... I'm sorry, I'm not very good at this.”

“At dancing?” Dorian squeezed Cullen’s fingers in reassurance. His other hand braced warmly against the sash at Cullen's waist as he led them on another, slower pass by the fountain. “I think you're doing quite well.”

“At… no. At other things.”

Dorian was quiet for a moment. Their steps led them back to the center of the deserted promenade, but Cullen wasn’t watching his feet anymore. Neither was Dorian. “My assessment still stands. You're doing… quite well.”

Cullen gripped his friend's waist a little tighter. “You look… very handsome tonight. I don't think I said so before.”

“You did. Well, not in so many words.” Their dance slowed, reduced to a hypnotic sway back and forth between the marble benches. "Your eyes told the whole story.”

Cullen realized his eyes were, at that moment, glued to the motion of Dorian's lips. He jerked them up to the man's eyes instead, a little lightheaded. “And what are they saying now?”

“Quite a great deal.” The mage quirked a smile. “Veritable sonnets dwell within, my dear Commander. Such a pity you're standing so far away, it's rather difficult to read them.”

Logically, Cullen failed to see how they could be standing any closer. But this was hardly a logical situation. Perhaps if it was, his heart wouldn't be beating fit to burst free of his ribcage. He leaned closer, chest to chest with Dorian, their noses just brushing. They were no longer even pretending to be dancing. “Closer than this?”

Dorian’s silver eyes grew hooded. “Closer.”

The world seemed to tip away beneath their feet, a yawning chasm of uncertainty. Cullen exhaled shakily and reached for Dorian's smooth cheek. The surface was warm against his palm, lyrium lines slightly raised and tingling where skin met skin. Their noses touched. Then, lightly, Dorian closed the distance and pressed a gentle kiss to the scar bisecting Cullen's lip.

The mage hummed against his mouth, pushing his cheek into Cullen's hand. The lyrium pulsed and flared where they touched, and the resulting ripple of energy passed through Cullen's entire body as their lips parted and came together again, wetter this time, open to each other. Dorian gripped Cullen's waist and moaned, tongue flirting with the corner of his scarred mouth.

“Dorian…” He drew an unsteady breath before plunging in again, both hands now framing that lean, delineated face. His own cheeks burned with embarrassment at his inexperience, but Dorian didn’t seem to notice or care. His arms were tight around Cullen’s waist, mouth hot and slick as that same wily tongue licked boldly at Cullen’s own. Their lips fit together, perfectly aligned for just a moment, and when Dorian let his jaw tilt and slide enough to drag his lyrium-lined philtrum along Cullen’s bottom lip, the resulting frisson of pleasure torn a broken sound from deep in his chest.

“Oh, Cullen.” Dorian nudged free of the hold Cullen had on his face, taking his hands tightly. “Dear man. Come.” Gently he tugged the other man away from the fountain, back to the veranda where they could stand in the kindly shadow of the riotous honeysuckle.

Out of immediate danger of being spotted, Dorian was on him in an instant, mouth hot and needy, fingers digging into Cullen’s arms with surprising strength as he pushed him up against a pillar. Cullen clung to him in return, happy to give the reins over to him. Dorian’s waist was narrow and sturdy under his hands, and flexed deliciously as the mage pressed closer, the heat of him bleeding through their tunics to seep into Cullen’s body. Their hips pushed flush together, then shifted, and Dorian’s thigh was resting lightly between Cullen’s, warm and undemanding. _Oh, Maker._

Cullen seized Dorian’s chignon in one hand, fingers digging deep into the soft black hair, and drew his head back to expose his throat. Here the lyrium was stark and minimalist, flanking his esophagus with bold lines and a few delicate spots no larger than the diameter of a fingertip. Cullen tongued the brands lightly, testing. The groan it tore out of Dorian’s chest was electrifying. He licked again with broader strokes, then bit lightly, teeth leaving little butterfly-marks in the deep brown of his throat.

His lips followed the trail up, past his chin, and found the lines that marched across Dorian’s plush mouth like teeth. Those he bit as well, gently, and licked until Dorian’s lips parted and they were kissing again. Blood pounded in Cullen’s ears, and lower; he pressed away from the pillar just enough to rock their hips together, and he growled into Dorian’s brown, smooth-shaven skin. _Maker, but that feels so good…_

“Darling,” Dorian whispered, lips moving raggedly against Cullen’s stubbled cheek. “Maker’s breath…”

Cullen, a bit bewilderedly, allowed Dorian to press him back against the pillar and bury his nose in Cullen’s stiff military collar.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, petting anxiously at Dorian’s sleek arms. The lyrium tracery sparked a bit under his touch, and he rubbed them softly until they quieted again.

“I… nothing. That is, I didn’t exactly expect this.” Dorian settled into Cullen’s arms, humming quietly.

“This?”

“Tenderness.” His voice was forcibly lighthearted, but tension ran beneath his words like tar in a clear stream. “You must admit, there has always been some level of violence to our relationship. Rivalry, if you will.”

Cullen pushed him away, just a little, just enough to hold him by the shoulders and look directly at him. “I would never hurt you, Dorian. Never. You are mine, and I will allow no harm to come to you.”

“Yours, am I?”

Cullen's hands fell away. “I mean, if you want to be.”

Dorian reached out and unfolded his fists. Their fingers laced together easily, and Cullen felt something in his chest begin to unwind. "As it happens, I do. And I know that you would never lift a finger to hurt me. I only meant that, well. Our lives are hardly stable, are they? Dashing about closing rifts and foiling would-be assassin duchesses.”

“My assertion still stands.”

“I know.” Dorian stared at their joined hands with a wrinkled sort of expression—not quite a frown, but not a smile either. “You must realize, I don’t usually do this sort of thing. _Romance_. In Tevinter, relations between men are swept under the rug. They are either scandals, or attempts to climb the social ladder, or rushed, uncomfortable things in the back of the library at someone else’s soirée.”

“Well, this is hardly a library,” Cullen began, but a quick squeeze of his fingers cut him off.

“Don’t. This is—I am not—” Dorian broke away with a frustrated groan, only to come back immediately as if Cullen had strung him along on an invisible reel. He pushed his fists against Cullen’s chest, jaw clenched. “This sort of thing is difficult for me. I feel a great many things for you, Cullen, but I don’t know where I stand with you. I don’t know what is safe to say. Or to feel.”

Cullen reached up, slowly, and covered Dorian’s hands with his. “You may feel whatever comes naturally.”

“Naturally? Is this natural, then?” He turned his head and his brands flared in the dark, a hollow-eyed skull for a moment before the mask was dimmed again. “You’ve said it before: the lyrium may very well be engineering all of this.”

“If that is the case, then I am grateful for it. Not for your pain, my dear, never that. But if this is some—some fever-dream, some illusion brought on by this…” He traced the brand that curved over Dorian’s ear. “Well then, I pray that I never wake up.”

Dorian’s face crumpled. “You say the sweetest things,” he whispered, but the forced cheer fell flat.

“I’m sorry if it wasn’t what you wanted to hear. But it’s the truth,” Cullen said staunchly. He rubbed the soft stubble at Dorian’s temple with his thumb.

The mage took a fortifying breath. “I’m afraid I rather adore you.”

A warm glow suffused Cullen’s breast. He squeezed Dorian’s hand, then pulled him close, nose pressed to one smooth cheek. “I love you.”

Dorian made a small, reflexive noise, almost like a wounded animal, and he clung to Cullen’s ridiculous gold-braid pauldrons as the Commander held him close, rubbing a soothing pattern on his back. They stood like this for some time, as the moon rose in the sky and the fireflies suffused the garden with a charming glow, and gradually the faint strains of music coming from the ballroom turned to a slow farewell waltz. Cullen hummed along, simultaneously elated and as weary as if he’d been trampled by a herd of druffalo. Perhaps sensing this, Dorian drew away with great reluctance, lifting a hand to smooth Cullen’s hair back.

“As much as I would love to stand here in your arms all night, I… well…” Dorian trailed off as a yawn stole whatever words he’d meant to say.

Cullen chuckled, eyes watering as the sympathetic reaction coaxed a yawn from him as well. “I know. It’s been… a long day.”

“Understatement of the bloody age,” Dorian murmured. He leaned in for another kiss, soft and comforting. “I don’t know what the room situation is, but I will bribe the Inquisitor myself if I must to share a bed with you tonight.”

“That will hardly be necessary,” said a new voice. Both men cringed instinctively, springing apart, and Leliana emerged from the shadows nearby, smiling like a cat with cream thick in its whiskers. “Forgive the interruption, but most of the others have retired for the night. I have made… arrangements, Lord Dorian, as you wished for.”

“If you’re my assigned fairy godmother,” Dorian said irritably, “I’d like to petition for a new one. A _less creepy_ one, if possible.”

Cullen snickered. “Does that mean Josephine is _my_ fairy godmother? If so, I think I got the better end of the deal.”

“You always do,” Dorian complained. Then he seemed to consider the implications of that, and looked down at himself, still as resplendent as the moment Cullen had first laid eyes on him that evening. “Well. Perhaps that’s not such a bad thing. _I_ am the better end of _every_ deal.”

“And so modest, too.” Cullen kissed his cheek to placate him and looked around. “She’s poofed off again.”

“Bloody rogues,” Dorian muttered. He returned the kiss chastely, then not so chastely, nibbling lightly at Cullen’s lower lip before releasing him. His eyes glittered wickedly in the dark. “I wonder how long she was watching us.”

“Not long, I’m certain.” Surely not. He shook off the thought and seized Dorian’s hand in his, tucking it into the crook of his elbow. “Come. I’ve had enough of parties and horrible uniforms to last me a decade or two.”

“Such a pity. You cut a rather splendid figure, my dear. Although I can certainly see the appeal of disrobing.”

As promised, an elven servant led them to a room of their own, across the hall from the suite shared by Josephine and Leliana, and adjacent to the Inquisitor’s chambers. Cullen wondered if the Bull would be joining Trevelyan in his rooms this evening, but pushed the thought out of his mind. It was hardly his business.

Safe behind closed doors, he released Dorian to shed the heavy military jacket, dumping it on the floor before sitting on the edge of the opulent bed in breeches and his slightly sweat-damp shirt.  “I feel... grimy.”

Dorian hummed agreement as he fiddled with the complex fastenings of his tunic. “As do I. A bath in the morning, then.” He leaned closer to the mirror, peering at his own reflection critically. “We can make use of this excellent Orlesian plumbing.”

“Together?”

“Mmm. I like the way you think, Commander.” His reflection met Cullen’s eyes over his own shoulder. Smiled. And his entire tunic dropped to the floor in a heap of overpriced fabric.

Cullen’s breath caught in his throat. Dorian’s back was a broad expanse of dark skin over lean muscle, high shoulders tapering to a trim waist. Silvery lines of lyrium rippled down his spine and fanned around his body like a ghostly ribcage, binding his mortal flesh in a protective film of spirit. The brands disappeared beneath his trousers, and that spot where skin and lyrium hid beneath the leather drew Cullen’s eyes like a battle-scarred blade to the forge.

“You are a devious man,” Cullen rasped. He rubbed the back of his neck as Dorian kicked off his boots and peeled his trousers down his thighs in far less dramatic fashion—and yet the clumsy hopping on one foot was just as magnetizing as his earlier display. From the pocket he rescued a small coin and set it on the low teakwood wardrobe, safely out of the way. Cullen’s throat tightened. “You kept it.”

“Of course. I told you I would.” He flashed a smile over his shoulder, soft and sincere rather than coy, and tugged off his rings and bracelets one by one. Down to satin smallclothes, he sauntered to the bed and promptly collapsed face-first into the mattress. He peeked at Cullen with one silver eye, smiling. “Your turn, handsome.”

Cullen very much doubted he could compete with that. But then, if Dorian desired the sort of man who could seduce someone with the mere flick of a button from its hole, he wouldn’t be here. Reassured, Cullen pulled his shirt over his head and kicked free of the rest of his clothes. With only his smalls preserving his scant remaining dignity—tired as he was, he hadn’t remained completely unaffected by Dorian’s mischievousness, and his underthings didn’t leave much to the imagination—he crawled up the bed and stretched out beside the other man. “Better?”

“Much.”

The room had a narrow balcony overlooking the hanging gardens, and the balmy summer air wafted in, kissing his bare skin. He shuffled a little closer, already struggling to keep his eyes open. “I’m sorry, love, I’m…”

“I know. As am I.” Dorian yawned again, jaw cracking, and he burrowed under Cullen’s outstretched arm without ceremony. “Sleep, _amatus_.”

“ _Amatus_ … what does that mean?”

Dorian smiled against the skin of his inner arm. “I’ll tell you in the morning.”

///

_Josie,_

_I’m pleased to report our machinations this evening were a success. Somehow, against all odds, not only did we foil the assassination of Empress Celene, but also—an even more unlikely victory—coaxed the hearts of our Commander and one Dorian Pavus together. I promise I didn’t eavesdrop… much… but just enough to confirm that, in fact, we can consider this a definite victory._

_As in, they are sharing Commander Cullen’s chambers tonight. I do hope the Inquisitor and the Iron Bull aren’t too troubled by the arrangements, considering they share a wall. Don’t blush, my dear, you aren’t nearly so innocent and naïve as you appear._

_We shall have to gossip more in the morning, perhaps over tea in the garden? It is quite a lovely spectacle, if I recall rightly. The topiary mazes are particularly complex and intriguing. Perfect for a long walk and a longer talk. Sleep well, my dear friend, and sweet dreams. Tonight, at least, we can rest easy on our laurels._

_Your friend,_

_L_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a little doodle I did of Dorian's fancy outfit: http://lyriumghostling.tumblr.com/post/129008928179
> 
> And Dorian's "clean-shaven" look: http://lyriumghostling.tumblr.com/post/130067941419


	9. 8.

Morning came early in the de Chalons chateau. Dawn light filtered through the gauzy curtains of the balcony, soft as butter, and the scent of ripe flowers was heavy in the room as Cullen eased awake. He shifted lazily, reveling in the smooth silken sheets as they slid against his bare body. He’d only been asleep for a few hours, but he was accustomed to rising before the sun, and his body was quick to rouse.

Beside him, the blankets were rumpled and empty, but still warm. He rolled into them and buried his nose in the pillow, inhaling. Dorian’s scent rose to greet him, spicy like cloves and cinnamon, blurred with sweat and the tackiness of the cologne he’d been wearing the night before. He hummed and rubbed his face back and forth, indulging just a bit before coaxing himself out of bed.

The polished tile floor was cool and smooth under his feet. With brisk motions, he shed his smalls and went to the elegant silver washbasin to rinse his face and teeth. He gave his neck and chest a cursory swipe with the damp cloth before walking to the open balcony doors. Through the filmy curtains, he could just make out Dorian’s shadowy form leaning over the rail.

“Good morning,” Dorian said. A small nudge of lyrium bloomed in the back of Cullen’s skull, and he smiled, parting the curtains just enough to get a clear view. Dorian was dressed, but only barely; a flimsy pair of Rivaini-style trousers clung to his legs, nearly transparent where the morning light passed through them. His torso was bared to the balmy air, rich brown and smooth as velvet. The silver lines of his brands were muted, but still glimmering faintly where the light caught, drawing Cullen’s eyes from the modest width of his shoulders down to his slim waist where they lingered, admiring the cut of his spine and the dimpled curve of his sacrum.

“A good morning indeed.” Cullen leaned against the marble lintel, letting the flimsy drapes fall behind him. Their balcony was narrow and faced only the gardens, hidden from their neighbors by the thickly-rambling morning glories, but he still stayed where he was. He was not ashamed of his nakedness, but he was determined that Dorian should be the only one to whom he gave that gift.

Dorian turned to face him, a small cup of coffee cradled in one hand. When he caught sight of Cullen his eyes widened, and a faint flush suffused his tawny face as his eyes trawled up and down his bared body. “Maker give me strength,” he murmured, and stepped closer. “You are determined to test me this morning, _amatus_.”

“I can change…”

“Mm, no. Don’t change a single thing.” He stopped a few inches away and finally his eyes found Cullen’s face, crinkled into a smile. “You are exquisite.”

Cullen shrugged affably, still ill at ease with such raw, unvarnished compliments. “I’m no _caryatid_ , but I suppose I’ll do.”

“Ah, he knows his classical art! Most impressive.” He leaned closer, and Cullen could smell the rich bitterness of coffee on his breath. “Brains and beauty are so rarely combined into one package.”

“Arguably, you have more of both of those qualities,” Cullen teased. He reached out, fingertips brushing over Dorian’s silver-lined ribs before coming to rest on his flank, the meat of his thumb matched to the groove of Dorian’s hipbone. Dorian hummed and allowed him to coax him further forward, until their bare chests brushed together and Dorian’s mouth hovered a scant hairsbreadth from Cullen’s own.

His eyes burned silver under heavy lids still smeared with last night’s kohl. “I didn’t think you’d be awake so soon.”

Cullen drew an unsteady breath, tasting coffee and cinnamon. “Nor I you. Rather unfair of you, leaving me to wake up to an empty bed.”

“I meant no offense, my dear.” Dorian brushed a soft, apologetic kiss to Cullen’s stubbled cheek. “I was simply reluctant to… rush you.”

“Rush me?”

“Waking up beside each other, with certain declarations hanging over us… I didn’t want you to feel like we had to be, ah, intimate right away.” Dorian’s hands fluttered between their bodies, the first hint of awkwardness Cullen had ever witnessed in him. “I don’t mean to offend, I only… wanted to be sure.”

“Dorian.” He took the tiny cup of coffee from his anxious hands and set it on the balustrade. “I’m grateful for the sentiment, but it’s very much unnecessary.”

“You’re sure?”

Cullen smiled. “Love, I came to tell you good morning without a stitch on. If that doesn’t qualify as ‘trying too hard,’ I’m not sure what does.”

Dorian hummed and bent his head, nuzzling the crook of Cullen’s bristled jaw. “Say that again.”

“That I’m trying too hard?”

“No, you ass. The first bit.”

Cullen’s fingers dug a little deeper into the lean meat of Dorian’s hip, pulling them flush together. The slippery surface of his trousers rippled like water against Cullen’s thighs, and he groaned softly, letting the first flush of arousal seep through him. “ _Love_.”

“Mm.” Dorian shivered, hands flat against Cullen’s stomach. His fingers sought the shape of muscles beneath his comfortable bulk, following the ridges of scar tissue and the smooth, hairless stretch of his flank. His thumb caught the fine trail of golden hair at his navel and rubbed there, little rhythmic circles that pulled the blood from Cullen’s core to the surface of his skin; he could feel himself growing blotchy and red as Dorian laced soft kisses across his collarbone and down, teasing.

“You're blushing,” he murmured against Cullen’s sternum.

“How can you tell? You aren't even looking at me.”

“I'm nose-deep in your very delightful chest, Commander. Did you know you blush clear down to your nipples? It's incredibly endearing.”

Cullen groaned and made a half-hearted effort to shove him away, but Dorian caught his wrists and chuckled darkly. “Not so fast, _amatus_. I’m not done.” He kissed the center of his chest, lightly. Then again, more firmly, a hint of teeth behind his soft, full mouth.

“Don't I… smell, a bit?”

“Mm. Not in a bad way.” Kiss. “Do you want a bath?” Kiss.

“Um. In a bit.” Heat raced down his spine and pooled between his legs, hardening him, and he gasped as Dorian licked delicately at one nipple, catlike.

“Sensitive, my dear?” Without waiting for an answer, he pressed more wet kisses across Cullen's chest, teasing at his sides with delicate fingers. Cullen sighed and held him tighter, reveling in the attention. His thighs parted naturally at Dorian’s coaxing, and the mage crouched between them, the flat of his stomach a sweet, hot surface for Cullen to push his growing prick against.

Over the rounded line of Dorian’s shoulders, Cullen could see the sun breaking through the low, ragged clouds that fringed the far horizon. The light gilded everything it touched: the distant shapes of the chateau’s elegant outbuildings, the magnificent gardens coaxed into perfect squares and spirals, the pools of trickling water stirred by fountains shaped like fauns and halla. The symmetrical shadow of the neatly-trimmed labyrinth dissolved as daylight began to break in earnest, and Cullen’s eyes fell shut as Dorian’s hand skimmed low against his hip.

“Dorian…”

“Yes, love?”

He licked dry lips with an equally parched tongue, and longed for the taste of Dorian’s mouth. “Kiss me.”

The mage stood erect, silhouetted sharply against the tangerine sky. “Aren’t you afraid of wandering eyes, _amatus_?”

“Let them look,” Cullen murmured. He felt ablaze with love and lust in equal measure, all traces of uncertainty and shyness burned away in the silver fire of Dorian’s regard. “I have hid in the shadows long enough.”

Dorian sighed and fell upon him, mouth hungry, tasting thickly of coffee and spices. His tongue breached Cullen’s mouth and licked deeply, a welcome invasion. The lyrium on his lips sparked awake, and Cullen wrapped his arms around the mage completely, seeking the electric press of his brands against bare skin.

The burn was exquisite. His hands grew hungry, sweeping up Dorian’s back and down again to cup arse; the mage rocked forward as if it were all the encouragement he needed, and Cullen groaned, happily pressed between the cold lintel and the warm body of his lover. Scarcely aware of what he was doing, he pulled at the drawstring of Dorian’s trousers and pushed them down enough to sink his fingers into the firm muscles of his backside. Dorian groaned brokenly and bit at his lower lip, the sting traveling straight to his groin as if by magic.

“I need you,” he gasped, pulling him tighter, faster, the rhythm sloppy and uncoordinated but oh, Maker, it was _so_ satisfying. “Dorian, please—”

“Tell me.” He pulled away just long enough to suck briefly on his neck, but he couldn’t stay away from Cullen’s mouth for long. “Whatever you want, tell me and I’ll give it.”

“I… don’t know,” Cullen faltered. He kissed him again, trying to escape the yawning blankness that arose at such a question, but Dorian kept it light, slowed the rut of their hips until it was a quiet, steady shadow of their waltz the night before.

“Then I am happy to present the possibilities.” Dorian kissed his mouth one more time, lingering, before drawing back to press his lips wetly against Cullen’s shoulder. “A bath perhaps, my darling? We are in no rush.”

His cock begged to differ, but Cullen forced his mind back to center and took a bracing breath. “A bath sounds wonderful.”

“Excellent. I’ve already had a peek—the washroom is absolutely _divine_.”

One last sinful, sucking kiss to Cullen’s throat and Dorian pulled away, tenting his loose trousers rather impressively. Cullen’s mouth watered at the sight. “Are you sure…”

“Positive.” He smiled, eyes smoky with desire. “Come. The water is already hot.”

Skyhold boasted fairly advanced plumbing for its age, but the chateau was much newer and up-to-date. The washroom that adjoined the master bedroom was hewn from rosy marble, one side devoted to pipes than ran overhead and spilled water in a warm, steady stream with the pull of a simple chain, and the other half a sunken pool, inlaid with runes to draw perfectly heated water on command. Bottles of all shapes and sizes lined the walls, promising a dizzying array of scents and textures, and high, narrow windows let in the morning light, throwing reflections of water against the walls like silvery rainbows.

Cullen hung back, a little in awe, and watched as Dorian pulled the chain and selected a green blown-glass bottle from the shelf. Water fanned down like rain, pleasantly warm, and ran in rivulets over Dorian’s smooth skin, soaking his trousers until they clung, transparent, to his every curve. He tugged at the fabric plastered to his hip, rueful.

“Help me with these?”

Resisting the urge to throw himself at Dorian’s feet, he stepped slowly into the spray and pulled the drawstring free of its knot. Just below his hands, Dorian’s prick curved proudly, the paper-thin fabric reduced to an afterthought by the water. Cullen slipped his fingers beneath the waistband and pulled. Slowly, it peeled away until Dorian’s erection was just barely visible, the head a pink smudge that tugged at a place deep in Cullen’s gut. He bent his knees and dragged the trousers down until they pooled around Dorian’s ankles. He made to kick them off, but Cullen took hold of one calf, stilling him. With great care, Cullen lifted one foot and freed it before setting it down and moving to the next. When Dorian stood completely bare and free of the encumbering fabric, Cullen leaned down and placed a soft kiss against one knobbly knee.

“ _Amatus_ …” The sigh was barely audible, and it sent a ripple of desire down Cullen’s spine. He kissed higher, nibbling gently at his thigh, and leaned back to look him in the eye.

“Soap?”

“I… here.”

There were low benches lining the wall for bathing in comfort, and Dorian stumbled to one of these, bottle still in hand. Cullen followed, shuffling on his knees through the shallow water as it drained in the center of the room. Even here the water fell upon them, soft and warm like summer rain on Cullen’s back.

Dorian’s thighs parted readily at his touch, and Cullen kissed his shin softly before accepting a handful of liquid soap. Evergreen and juniper burst into the air as he worked a lather between his hands, watching Dorian closely. The mage leant against the wall, silver irises eclipsed by black, his breath heaving in his chest. The lyrium that traced its way over his body glowed faintly, alive with the arousal that rippled through the bond. Cullen smiled and began with his feet.

Dorian had lovely feet: long and slender, the bones well-defined, the toes long and capped with smooth oval nails. He twitched at Cullen’s touch, but soon relaxed as Cullen’s strokes grew firmer, rubbing away the residual soreness. Then his ankles, the lyrium twisting at the outer bone before branching upward. Cullen worked the rich-scented lather up, past his knees, caressing his thighs and hips until Dorian was rocking vaguely into his touch. Then he withdrew, rinsing away soap and grime with a soft cloth.

“Arms,” he said, and Dorian leaned forward readily. He couldn’t resist a soft kiss before he began his task, working the soap between his fingers and up his arms, over his shoulders—then, standing, down the supple curve of Dorian’s spine, smoothing over each silver brand that marked his flesh. Dorian leaned against his belly, chin tucked in so that his mouth lingered near Cullen’s desire. But Cullen dropped back to his knees, shaking his head. “Patience.”

With tender motions he coaxed him to the edge of the bench, and took advantage of Dorian’s vulnerable position to bathe his rigid prick. His curls were trimmed neatly around the base, and soon frothed white with soap as Cullen dragged the ring of his thumb and forefinger up and down, slow, the rhythm drawn not from his racing heart but from the deeper, primal pulse of lyrium singing into his mind.

“Cullen.” His name was a broken gasp, stripped to its barest syllables by Dorian’s need. The mage sank his teeth into his lower lip and reached down, pulling one knee wider with his own hand. The lack of subtlety was dizzying. Cullen braced one hand against the soft meat of Dorian’s inner thigh and ran the other lower, slicking his balls with soap, teasing at the crease of his arse.

“May I continue?” he asked raggedly.

Dorian hummed, eyed half-lidded, watching from where his head had tipped back against the wall. “I would be very put out with you if you didn't, darling.”

Cullen smirked and pressed his thumb into the crease, rubbing firmly at the smooth patch of skin behind Dorian’s balls. The mage groaned aloud, then cursed, his voice thickly Tevinter as Cullen worked the soap farther back, past his hole to the hardness of his tailbone. The falling water had rinsed the suds from Dorian’s cock and he finally gave in to the urge to kiss it. The skin was smooth and taut under his lips, and when he extended his tongue and licked, it tasted of clean water and pine. The hand pressing against Dorian’s inner thigh shifted to grip his hip and he suckled the head into his mouth, tentative but eager.

The resulting groan echoed off the tile, urging him on. He was clumsy at first, but Dorian wrapped a hand around his prick to steady it, and kept up an encouraging babble of dialogue, broken by sighs and moans as Cullen learned how best to please him. His free hand kept at its work, slick now with water more than soap as it massaged Dorian’s entrance without ever quite breaching it—a pleasant thought that tightened his abdomen with desire, but he was so focused on using his mouth in _just_ the right ways that he didn’t have the mental space to worry about the logistics.

“Oh, fuck,” Dorian breathed suddenly. He arched his back, and suddenly logistics weren’t a problem—Cullen’s forefinger slipped inside him to the second knuckle, immediately seized by Dorian’s internal muscles and held fast. Frozen with surprise, Cullen let his mouth go soft, but Dorian would have none of it. “Deeper, please love, _amatus_ , _oh_ …”

His ardor fanned the flames of Cullen’s own desire and he bent back to his task, cheeks hollowing as he pressed deeper. Dorian’s body was incredibly hot and snug, smooth as silk, and he rubbed the pad of his finger firmly against his insides. A moment later he was rewarded with a shout, and a small burst of salt as pre-come welled thickly on his tongue.

“Fuck! Cullen, oh, fucking Maker.” Dorian bit his teeth together with a sharp clack, eyes shut tight against the falling water as he rocked shallowly into Cullen’s mouth. “I’m close, darling…”

Cullen surged up at these words, hungry for Dorian’s kiss. The mage twisted his free hand in Cullen’s hair and kissed him back brutally, teeth clacking together as he jerked himself between their bellies. The lyrium brands sizzled and snapped with energy, then burst into brilliant silver fire—his body clenched around Cullen’s finger, impossibly tight, as Dorian shouted Cullen’s name to the ceiling.

Cullen barely had the foresight to look down, forehead braced on the mage’s collarbone as he watched him come. The semen slid down Dorian’s chest and stomach in the aftermath, and Cullen wiped it away, rubbing the viscous slick between his fingers until the water washed it away.

“Fuck,” Dorian breathed again. He slumped against the wall again, fingers threading shakily through yellow curls. “Cullen, love, that was…”

“A good start?” Cullen filled in, smiling. The throb of his cock between his legs was surmounted only by the ache in his knees—he should have known he was too old for this sort of thing—and he pulled himself slowly to his feet, looming over Dorian’s languid form. “I think I’d like to take that bath, now.”

Dorian sighed blissfully. “I would like nothing better.”

The water was hot and steaming thanks to the runes, and Cullen sank into it with a grateful sigh. Softened with orgasm, but no less eager than before, Dorian climbed on top of him, kissing him deeply as his hands ran possessively over Cullen’s chest and shoulders. Cullen groaned and leaned back, letting him do as he pleased.

The soap hadn’t made it to the bath with them, but there were plenty of others close at hand. Dorian selected a bar of smooth white, scented with vanilla and sandalwood, and massaged every inch of Cullen’s body until he was writhing, cock nearly purple for want of attention. He was quieter than Dorian, but no less fervent; he mumbled his name repeatedly into the mage’s tattooed shoulders as Dorian slicked the crack of his arse with the soap and rode Cullen’s prick that way, slow and undulating beneath the surface of the water. Cullen was already close, and he clung to Dorian’s back with fingers that felt like claws as the snug, velvet heat between Dorian’s thighs drove him closer to the edge.

“Dorian,” he whispered, and bit weakly at his throat; “Dorian, _ungh_  yes, fuck, _fuck_ ,” all a clandestine mutter spoken directly to Dorian’s skin as if in prayer.

When he came, he left scratches on Dorian’s back, thin red parallels to the lyrium brands glowing in dazzling relief. The sympathetic shudder of the bond rippled through Dorian’s body, and the mage bit back a scream as a second orgasm was pulled out of him, smaller and drier than the first but no less intense.

“ _Amatus_.” The word was a sigh, ragged but devout, whispered against Cullen’s temple. He clung to Dorian in response, shaking. “Are you all right?”

“I… yes.” Gasp, shudder, _breathe_. “Fine. I… will be.”

“Good.” Dorian cupped his face and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. They breathed together that way, letting the water soak the aches and bruises from their bodies, and if the wetness on Cullen’s face wasn’t entirely from the bath, Dorian was kind enough not to mention it.

“I think,” Cullen rasped some time later, “I’d like to go to bed with you.”

“Your confidence in my stamina is overwhelming, my dear, but I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

Cullen smiled and snuck a hand down to pinch Dorian’s arse. “Don’t be an ass.”

“Parrot.”

“Berk.”

“Original. Ouch! Hey, yes, fine,” Dorian laughed, leaning away from Cullen’s teeth. “Sleep sounds divine.”

Together they staggered out of the water and towel-dried each other sloppily, leaving wet patches and damp hair that somehow didn’t seem to matter. The bed was still unmade, waiting for them like an old friend, the early morning sun soaking everything in warmth. Dorian pushed his lover to the mattress and crawled in after him, curling immediately into his arms.

“Remind me,” he said, pausing to yawn against Cullen’s shoulder. “What was that thing you said, last night, briefly?”

“Hmm. Before or after I snogged you senseless?” Cullen mumbled. His eyes were already shut, but he was smiling as Dorian petted the fine sprinkling of hair on his chest.

“I believe it was _I_ who snogged _you_ senseless, amatus. But technicalities aside…. after.”

“I’ll remind you if you tell me what _amatus_ means.”

“Ah, you drive a hard bargain, Commander.” Dorian turned into him, arm snaking around Cullen’s broad waist. “My love. _Amatus_ means my love.”

Cullen, more than half asleep, nudged the shaved side of Dorian’s head with his chin in a rough sort of kiss. “How fortuitous. Because I love you, as it happens. I told you last night and I’ll tell you again when we wake up, and every day after that for as long as you wish to hear it.”

“That might be a very long time, my darling.” A wavering pause. “Is that all right?”

Cullen smiled. “It’s perfect. _Amatus_.”

///

_My dearest Lady Ambassador,_

_While I hate to trouble you on this festive and joyous day, I have one pressing request to be fulfilled immediately upon receiving this note: we need another bloody room! The Lord Inquisitor and I passed the evening in good company and good cheer, and we mistakenly believed all would be well when we awoke. _

_We were grievously mistaken. We were awakened in the early hours of the morning by the sounds of what we believed to be the long and drawn-out murder of some unfortunate soul in the next room. Our fears were found to be misplaced when the would-be victim began shouting the name of our beloved Commander Rutherford with a great deal of zest and verve. (Trevelyan insists those words are appropriate here. I would be more inclined to use words like “horny” and “sex-fueled,” but he vetoed them. Except I just used them anyway. Oops.)_

_While we are very happy for our dear friends, and in fact consider ourselves overjoyed that they have finally seen the light and are happily fucking like rabbits on the other side of the wall, Trevelyan needs his rest, as do I. Therefore, a change of quarters would be much, highly, and in all other ways extremely delightfully, appreciated._

_I wasn’t supposed to use the word “fuck” either. Oh well._

_Yours truly,_

_The Iron Bull, Captain of the Bull’s Chargers, Tal-Vashoth of the Qunari Peoples, Former Ben-Hassrath, and Champion of the Order of Fucking the Lord Inquisitor’s Pretty Lights Out as Often as Possible_

_..._

_Josie,_

_Sorry. I tried to prevent him. Yours sincerely, etc._

_Trevelyan_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fucking finally, right? Or is it finally fucking...


	10. 9.

“Higher, lift it—yes. Perfect.” Dorian spun his staff and brought it down, and the small burst of force bounced smoothly off Cullen's shield and radiated out to where Bull stood braced for impact. Combined with Cullen's extra mental burst, the move pushed Bull a few paces back. He shook his great horned head as he regained his equilibrium.

“Again.”

“Glutton for punishment, aren’t you?” Hawke remarked, watching avidly from where she hung off the wooden rail of the practice ring.

“Qunari thing,” Bull grunted. “Psychology. Coping mechanisms. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Are you implying I’m shallow?” Hawke put a hand to her breast. “I’m wounded.”

Cullen drew inward, away from the conversation. The lyrium bond was a well of force inside him, trickling in a steady stream from the base of his skull down to his sternum. There he caught the weft of its amorphous shape, coaxing threads away to curl down his arms and send tendrils frost creeping over the face of his shield. Bull was half-turned away, but still watching; he held firm as Cullen rushed him, and hissed at the burn of ice on his unprotected forearm.

“Balls, that's cold!” He shook it off and growled as Cullen hit him again, steps quickened with Dorian's subtle push of lyrium. “That's it! Fucking demons. Who’s stuck in the Fade, huh? Not me, that’s for damn sure. Not the Iron Fucking Bull.”

“Not there’s an image,” Hawke quipped. “Is that what Trevelyan uses when you need a little something extra?”

“Trevelyan _is_ the something extra,” said the man himself, materializing behind Hawke like a shadow on a sunny day. She squeaked and dropped to the ground inside the ring, putting the fence between her and the Inquisitor.

“Er, hello milord Herald thingy. What ho?”

Trevelyan snorted. “Need a hand there, Commander?”

They'd been at it for a while, and Cullen had to admit (reluctantly, to himself) that he was tiring. Hitting Bull was like throwing himself at a brick wall that only occasionally deigned to crumble. He slid his shield free and shook out his arm, stepping back to the edge of the ring. “Be my guest, Inquisitor. Maybe you can beat some sense into him.”

He boosted himself up on the fence not far from Hawke. Dorian slipped in beside him, a subtle shadow, and bumped their arms together briefly. Cullen smiled.

In the ring, Trevelyan sized up his lover with a critical eye. He was dressed lightly for the warm weather, well-worn and -loved leathers over a simple linen shirt. A sturdy pole arm was balanced in one hand, stripped of its blade to form a stave. As Cullen watched, the Inquisitor bent at the knees and reared back, whacking Bull hard across the torso. The resulting _smack_ echoed across the training yard.

“That’s the stuff, kadan! Again!”

Dorian chuckled in Cullen's ear, low and velvety in a way that raised the hair on the back of his neck. “Funny to see Trevelyan being the one in charge for once.”

“Ugh. I do _not_ need that mental image.”

“Oh, amatus,” Dorian laughed, one hand resting on Cullen's thigh. “Calm yourself. You know you're the only one for me.”

Cullen ducked his head to hide his grin and pushed a soft, subtle touch of lyrium through the bond, a subliminal kiss that was returned when Dorian's hand squeezed lightly over his knee. Hawke made exaggerated gagging sounds, but was ignored.

A shout from the front gate broke the companionable peace of the morning. Trevelyan held back his strike at the last minute as all their heads turned as one to face the portcullis, hidden from view by the dropoff to Skyhold’s entrance. There was a beat of silence, but before they could begin to relax, a small burst of concentrated power ripped through the yard, throwing Hawke from her precarious perch on the fence and roaring like a blast of boiling water through Cullen’s bond. He shouted aloud, and nearly fell; only Dorian’s firm grip kept him from toppling as well. The mage slid to the ground as soon as the force of it passed, gray-faced.

“A Silence. Bleeding hell, Cullen, what _was_ that?”

Not being a mage, Cullen hadn’t been affected nearly as badly, but the sickening emptiness through the bond was enough to spur him to action. He pushed off the fence and began running. Somewhere close by, several Templars were casting  a terrifically powerful Silence—and somehow, someone was resisting it.

Hawke and Dorian were on his heels as Cullen tore down the steps to Skyhold’s main gate, Trevelyan and Bull not far behind. Shouting reached his ears as he drew closer, and as he rounded the curving stairs he saw a crowd gathered around a tight knot of Templars. The tremendous power warring back and forth had created a wavy mirage of heat in the air above their heads.

“Move! Out of the way!” His voice carried through the noise, and people parted for him readily. At the center of the crowd, four Templars stood rigid, faces knotted with concentration as they bent the force of their collective will on a single mage: shabby, thin, and bowed on hands and knees in the brittle grass. As Cullen skidded to a halt, the mage’s hands and face began to crack apart, brilliant blue shining through the gaps in the skin.

“ _You will not take me! You will not take me as you took him!_ ”

The mage exploded with blue light, his form barely containing the raw power of the Fade, and the Templars collapsed in unison, unconscious. Their victim staggered upright and glared with blazing cerulean eyes at Cullen.

“ _Knight-Captain. You will answer for their crimes._ ”

“Anders, no!”

Her cry was thin and reedy, but Hawke pushed her way in front of Cullen anyway, white-faced with the force of the fading Silence. “Justice, stop this. This man is not your enemy.”

Anders—or Justice, for it was he—curled his lip and raised both hands, swirling orbs of power gathered in his palms. “ _He is no friend to mages, Hawke. And as long as you protect him, neither are you.”_

Before the spirit could unleash his retribution, Cullen felt himself torn aside. He stumbled to one knee, breathless with shock, and watched as Dorian stood at Hawke’s side, alight with the full strength of his brands. “Stand back, spirit. You are not yourself.”

“ _And who are you to command me?_ ” Justice hissed, but his voice was less reverberating, eyes drawn to Dorian’s illuminated form like moths to flame.

“I am Dorian Pavus, a lyrium enchanter, friend to Hawke and lover to the man you nearly just scorched into oblivion.” He extended one glowing hand, ignoring the ripple of gasps from the gathered crowd. “Stay yourself. You are not Vengeance, you are Justice, and Justice does not slaughter indiscriminately.”

Slowly, Justice lowered his hands, skin still crackling with Fade energy. In that heartbeat, Dorian stepped forward and pressed the branded palm of his hand to the other man’s forehead. His tattoos flared, blinding enough to leave an imprint on the inside of Cullen’s eyelids, and Justice dropped like a stone.

///

_Cullen—_

_What the fucking buggering shit?? WHY IS HE HERE. Why did it have to be HIM? When Sister Leliana said they had a lead on Fenris I didn't think they meant the murdering lying scumface who broke my heart and left me to clean up his bloody mess on my own!_

_How does he know where Fenris is, anyway?_

_Maker's balls, I would like nothing better than to punch that Fade-damned man straight in his beaky nose. But I can't. I'm a coward. I can't face him. I'd like to think that I could yell at him, tell him what a damned fool he was for hiding his plans from me, but the truth is that I'd probably just break down. Embarrassing. Not at all productive. Not even emotionally rewarding. I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing my weakness. So. I'm leaving._

_Not permanently. I'll be back, ideally with Fenris in tow. Oh, ha! You didn't think I'd be so distraught over Anders showing up out of the blue that I'd forget the news he brought? The fucking Venatori will NOT put their greasy paws all over my elf, not without my say-so. Hopefully Cassandra won't be too upset with me. Oh, and the Inquisitor I guess._

_Listen. If you happen to wander down to the dungeons, and just accidentally find yourself near the cell of a certain ass-brained apostate, tell him fuck you, from me._

_Hawke_

///

“Yeah, she’s… colorful.” Varric handed the letter back, lips pursed unhappily. “I knew she’d run off sooner or later. I was hoping it wouldn’t be straight into the Red Templar’s open arms, but, well. You can’t have everything in life.”

“Have you… spoken with him?”

“Blondie? Yeah. Well, the spirit anyway. He hasn't let Anders come out to play just yet, not when I was there.” Varric eyed him critically. “You have special lyrium powers again, right? Maybe you can try your hand at calming him down.”

Cullen hesitated. “I don't know. The Templars that tried to Silence him didn't fare so well.”

“Then don't Silence him. Broody had this trick where he could light himself up and Justice would just totally mellow out. Closest I’ve ever seen Blondie to being drunk.” Shrug. “Just a suggestion.”

Which was how Cullen found himself in the cells of Skyhold, looking through the bars of a warded cell specially designed to hold mages. Anders sat within, slumped against the wall, still shot through with blue light. Underneath it, he looked terrible: wasted away in his bulky robes, lips cracked, eyes sunken in his head, hair limp over his sweaty forehead. Cullen pushed down a pang of remorse. He’d never interacted with the man on a personal level, not after he fled Kirkwall and left Hawke to rebuild the fragile rebellion he’d nurtured for so long, but seeing him like this was… painful. He could remember a younger version of this gaunt apostate, mulish and angry but full of life and verve. The man in the cell was but a shell of a man filled to the brim with burning, endless rage. _Vengeance_ , Dorian had said. A sorry fate for someone so committed to another cause entirely.

Cullen rested his bare fingertips on the bars, and bright blue eyes snapped open. He shuddered. Without pupil or sclera, those eyes were inhuman, belonging to the creature that burned inside the fragile human frame.  “ _Knight-Captain_.”

He was subdued after the rigorous questioning Cassandra had put him to, but still angry. Cullen sighed and tucked both hands behind his back, feet braced in an unconscious parade rest. “It’s Commander now, actually.”

“ _You have changed. You… sing._ ” The spirit cocked its host’s head, an eerie parody of such a human gesture that it sent chills down Cullen’s spine. “ _The lyrium inside you is not of this mortal plane._ ”

“I’ve… evolved.” He cleared his throat. “I’d like to talk to Anders, if I may.”

“ _Anders is weary. I have pushed him beyond his limits._ ” The spirit sounded grudging, and just a little bit uncertain. “ _I have not been present in his body for so long before._ ”

“How long?”

“ _Time has little meaning for me. When we learned of the elf’s imprisonment, I came forth, and guided him here to seek aid from the Hawke. But we were waylaid._ ”

“The Templars,” Cullen said with a nod. “I apologize for that. Your arrival was… unexpected.”

“ _You wish me to subside. I cannot. I fear what will happen to this body once I cede control. I cannot leave it yet—there is much still for us to do in the name of justice.”_

Cullen turned his head a subtle inch to the left. Dorian lingered there, just outside his line of sight. “If I ask Dorian to come, will you be calm? He only wants to help you.”

“ _He is powerful. I have met such a match only once before._ ” Justice mulled the offer over. “ _Swear to me that this body will not be harmed and I will agree._ ”

“You would trust my word?”

“ _You have been my enemy at other times and places, but as you stand before me now, you appear to be a man of honor._ ”

High praise from a spirit. Cullen bowed his head briefly. “Very well. I give you my word you—and the body you inhabit—will not be harmed. Not by myself or by Dorian.”

Justice nodded his approval, and Cullen turned, beckoning. Dorian came swiftly to his side and looked into the cell. “Spirit.”

“ _Mage_.” Fade-blue eyes looked him over. “ _The memories in this body say you are Tevinter. How can it be that one with the blood of Magisters bears the marks of their destruction?_ ”

“I was a victim of greed and pride, just as, I believe, your friend was. Is.”

“ _The elf is not our friend._ ”

“And yet you took control of Anders’ body and brought him here solely to tell us of Fenris’ fate,” Cullen interjected.

“ _The elf is… an ally_ ,” Justice said reluctantly. “ _He is the bonded of Hawke, who has done much for the plight of mages and whom Anders calls friend. He has suffered much at the hands of others, and now suffers yet again—it is justice that we bring word of what he endures._ ”

Dorian pursed his lips. “You said you fear what will happen to Anders’ body if you cede control. What would you have me do?”

“ _Your power is unique, fueled by the Fade and yet connected directly to it. You may be able to… force me back, suppress me in slow increments until Anders can return in safety._ ”

Dorian touched Cullen’s arm, turning to speak softly in his ear. “I can do as the spirit asks, but I’ll need your help. I’m going to feed you a tiny thread of lyrium while I work, and I need you to push a steady flow of healing power into Anders’ body, like we practiced. Can you do that?”

The “practice” Dorian was referring to had been very nearly a disaster. While Cullen could channel and direct some of Dorian’s abilities, and could even conjure fire and ice on the surface of his weapons if he concentrated, healing magic was trickier. Dorian was no spirit healer, either. But he nodded anyway, and went to fetch the key from the guard on duty.

Justice remained where he was as they entered the cell and knelt beside him. The spirit was strong, radiating power that set Cullen’s teeth on edge, but the flesh that housed him was weak, burning away under the strength of Justice’s possession. Cullen could feel his frailty through the bond, Dorian’s perception augmenting his own Templar awareness.

“Take my hands,” Dorian was saying. “Cullen, don’t touch him, but do as I told you whenever you’re ready.”

Cullen closed his eyes. Even without sight, he could feel Justice like a bonfire roaring inches from his skin. Dorian tickled the back of his mind, a tiny gleaming strand of power nearly suffocated by the spirit’s closeness, and he seized onto it roughly, desperately grateful for its shred of familiarity. Then, with all the focus he could muster, he gathered a small loop of healing force and let it fall into place.

He could feel Dorian working, pushing the spirit back into Anders’ body with painstaking care, but he was too focused on maintaining his small thread of power to pay much attention. Then the loop slipped free, and he opened his eyes in time to see Justice fade away, leaving only Anders in his place, gasping and full of tremors.

“You’re all right, you’re safe,” Dorian was saying. Anders coughed weakly and Cullen stood, dizzy from the arduous task, to fetch a cup of water. When he returned, Anders was sitting upright against the wall instead of slumped over, hands picking shakily at the hem of his sleeves. He flinched when he saw Cullen.

“Knight-Captain?”

He suppressed a sigh. “Just Cullen. I’m here to help.”

Dorian took the cup from Cullen and offered it to the other mage. “Drink some of this. You’ve been at that spirit’s mercy for who knows how long.”

“Days, I think,” Anders rasped, accepting the cup from Dorian. “It’s… a bit of a blur, now.” He drank, slowly at first, then deeply until the cup was empty. “I’d been trying to find Hawke for months, ever since the Breach first opened. I wanted to come to Haven, to give what help I could, but I… didn’t think I’d be welcome.”

Cullen thought of Hawke’s letter, tucked into the inner pocket of his tunic, and coughed politely. “Not at the time, perhaps. But I can’t deny an extra pair of hands would have been welcome these past few months, especially ones as talented as yours.”

A sly smirk crept across Anders’ face, but Dorian’s pained groan interrupted whatever he’d been about to say. “Amatus, _please_ , I know you don’t mean to, but your clumsy innuendo is positively painful to witness.” He turned to Anders, who was now looking between them with narrowed eyes. _So much for subtlety, Dorian._ “Justice told us what happened to Fenris, so there’s no more need for interrogation. If you’re quite finished with the raging spirit possession and Templar endangerment, I might persuade the Commander to find you a proper bed.”

“Templar endangerment, faugh,” Anders muttered, but he did have the grace to look a little chastened. He allowed Dorian to prop him upright, and stood on wavering feet. “I’m finished, I promise. Don’t think I could lift a finger without assistance. But… the Commander? Of the Inquisition? I fail to see why such a person should want to bother with me.”

“You could ask him, if you like,” Dorian said cheerfully, and waved one hand at Cullen like a merchant showing off his newest wares. “Here he is!”

Anders looked around at Cullen, less than impressed. “Is that so? A Templar at the head of the Inquisition’s armies. That bodes well.”

“I’m not a Templar any longer,” Cullen said for what felt like the hundredth time. “And whatever you’ve done or not done to earn the Inquisition’s mistrust, you need your rest. I’ll talk to the quartermaster about procuring you some new clothes and a room of your own. For now, there are spare cots in the infirmary. You can rest there.”

“And Fenris?” Anders asked quietly.

“Hawke is going after him.”

The mage went deathly still. “Hawke is here?”

“She was.” Cullen glanced at Dorian, who was watching the exchange in fascination. “She tore off alone as soon as she got the news. And she told me to tell you, er…”

Anders winced. “Tell me. It’s likely no less than I deserve.”

“Her exact words were ‘fuck you,’ I believe.”

To Cullen’s surprise, Anders gave a wry chuckle, years falling away from his face even as he clutched Dorian’s arm for support. “Well, that’s less terrible than I expected. She’s probably saving the full version for when she can beat me senseless in person.” He sagged, and Cullen moved to support his other side. Anders shot him a wide-eyed glance, almost a flinch, and Cullen paused.

“I swear to you, I mean you no harm.”

“I can vouch for him,” Dorian rumbled, meeting Cullen’s eyes. “He’s quite soft on mages, as it turns out.”

Anders sighed and relaxed, allowing Cullen to drape his arm over his shoulders. “Very well. Forgive my nerves, but I’ve been taught to avoid Templars at all costs, particularly Knight-Captains. It will be a hard habit to break.”


	11. 10.

_Inquisitor,_

_They have Fenris. I can’t get close enough to retrieve him on my own, but I’ve been watching. They’re gathering in the Arbor Wilds, seeking some kind of Elven ruin—the coordinates are below. Thought you’d like to know._

_Hawke_

///

Dorian _hated_ the Arbor Wilds. Humid, buzzing, every leaf moist and crawling with prickly, multi-legged life, the crooks of trees swampy with rainwater and poison sap. Birds screamed overhead, brightly painted feathers searing the eye like a child's garish drawing, and noisier than the small skirmishes that clashed all around them, hidden by the undergrowth. Dorian was almost relieved to see the temple looming out of the jungle, even wreathed in beards of ivy and moss as it was. Almost. Would have been, if the place wasn’t completely overrun with Venatori.

Hawke met them in the shadow of the cracked gates, bloodied staff held at the ready. She looked grimmer than he'd ever seen her, not a trace of her usual good humor under the crimson that splattered her pale face. “Fenris is inside,” she said, the words bit out through pinched lips. “I watched them. They’re only a few minutes ahead of you.”

“Then we can waste no time.” Trevelyan stood broadly before her, solid as a stone wall. He was no warrior, but at times it seemed he easily could have been. “Will you come with us?”

“I would go alone if I thought you would let me,” she said flatly. “But yes. I will come with you.”

Trevelyan jerked his head and she fell in with their group, already weary from the opposition they'd faced but buzzing with the manic, excess energy gifted by elfroot and stamina potions. Dorian fingered the lyrium potion at his belt, hooked there by Cullen's patient hands “just in case.” Considering what lay ahead, he thought he just might need it.

Trevelyan led the way into the temple, Solas and the witch vying for the place at his heels. Cullen and Dorian came after, Bull behind and Varric bringing up the rear, Bianca held at the ready. Inside the outer gates, the jungle still struggled against ancient stone, but the the elven craftsmanship, against all odds, was holding its own. Dorian felt very small in that place. The weight of a thousand years fell on his shoulders, years of oppression, of atrocities perpetrated by his ancestors against the noble race that had once walked here freely, but now flitted in the shadows like a dream, or the memory of a dream. He stayed well away from the petitioner's path as Trevelyan walked it carefully. He wasn't worthy.

“The magic here is old,” he murmured to Cullen, who was watching the Inquisitor's progress keenly. “I would say it feels Tevinter, but..." He glanced at Solas. The elf was watching, too, something like sorrow on his angular face. "I know better now."

The intricate panels lit up, singing like lyrium, and far above their heads the doors to the Temple proper opened. The Inquisitor led the way up the stairs, grim with approval and determination. Dorian let out a soft sigh and followed.

He kept his opinions to himself as they wound their way deeper into the Temple, fighting off Red Templars and Venatori as they went. He was but a child here in the shadow of his elders and betters. Solas seemed to grow in the green light of the Wilds, wisdom wreathing his shoulders like an invisible stole, eyes bright and piercing as he took in their surroundings with the air of a prince returning to his hold after a long absence. Even Morrigan, who was no elf, was in her element, her self-aggrandizement balanced by the genuine respect she bore for the petitioners of old.

At last, after much tracing and retracing of their steps, after treating with the leader of the elven guardians, after Morrigan flew ahead in a flurry of wings and an echo of Trevelyan's chastising shout, they came to the inner sanctum. Cullen was tense at his right hand, Hawke a vibrating current of energy at his left. And below them, the Venatori, moving in force to the Well of Sorrows.

Hawke made a tiny, wretched noise in her throat. " _Fenris_."

Dorian had never met the elf in person, but even if he hadn’t heard enough stories to build a clear picture in his head, Fenris was easily distinguishable from the rest. He stood erect at the edge of a clear stream, dressed in gleaming red plate and wearing a massive broadsword that was nearly as tall as he was. His hair was like a white flame above the blood-red armor, matching the glow of the red lyrium rune that jutted from the center of his chest. The lyrium lines that ran through his skin were tinged pink in a way that made Dorian’s skin crawl. _Red lyrium warrior_ , he thought, and swallowed back the gorge rising in his throat.

Hawke tore away from the rest, and they had no choice but to follow her. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, staff at the ready, face white as bone as she stared at the corrupted husk of her lover.

“Fenris.”

There was a twist of recognition in the elf’s red eyes, and he lifted a hand. The Red Templars that had clustered around him at the Inquisition’s approach fell back, leaving a clear path between him and Hawke, but he made no move toward her.

“I expected you would find your way here,” he said. His voice was a deep rattle in his chest, toneless and shredded with lyrium poisoning, and it raised the hair on the back of Dorian’s neck. “A fitting conclusion to your adventures, wouldn’t you agree?” He clucked his tongue, but it was an eerie sound, devoid of emotion as if his mouth moved on strings pulled by an unseen puppet-master. “Always choosing the wrong side.”

“What have they done to you?” Hawke demanded. Her slender form was taut as a wire, but Dorian knew she wouldn’t use her staff against Fenris even if he lifted his blade against her. “Fenris, listen to me, it’s Hawke. It’s Marian. What have they done? _Where are you_?”

Trevelyan touched her shoulder. “It isn’t him, Hawke.”

“They’ve done something to him, to his mind,” Solas said quietly. “I suspect blood magic, but I have no doubt the red lyrium is playing its part.”

“ _No_. They cannot. They will not make you their slave!”

The word _slave_ seemed to trigger something in Fenris, a flash of real, deep hatred tearing the blank mask away. “ _I am no one’s slave_ ,” he growled, the lyrium-enhanced timbre rattling Dorian’s teeth in his skull. “Least of all _yours_.”

He drew his blade and all hell broke loose.

Hawke refused to aim her spells at Fenris in spite of his furious efforts to reach her, and so Bull stationed himself between them, swinging his great double-bearded axe with frightening accuracy. Varric scrambled back to the top of the staircase, using the vantage point to fire on the Venatori and their fearsome Red Templars, and Solas busied himself with spirit magic and the occasional bolt of lightning, each strike sizzling the air with the smell of smoke and ozone.

Dorian shrugged off his cowl and spread his hands, catching the slender thread that Cullen threw to him. They’d been expecting Calpernia in place of the recently-reborn Corypheus, and this new development with Fenris’ lyrium armor was going to be a challenge. He knew, even as he drew deeply from his well of mana, that he would have to face Fenris before the end. He was determined that _he_ would be the one to walk away from their inevitable confrontation.

The Venatori agents were the first to fall, their bodies not enhanced by the red lyrium that protruded grotesquely from their Templar thralls. From the corner of his eye, Dorian watched as Cullen slammed his shield into a Venatori’s face, the pull of the bond adding a scorching heat to the metal surface. The man fell screaming, features melted beyond recognition, and Cullen ran him through with smooth efficiency.

Dorian turned just in time to see Fenris’ blade cut deeply into the Bull’s unprotected left side. He reached out and cast a web of force that propelled the elf across the clearing, and was nearly bowled over as Trevelyan bolted past in a burst of smoke. Dorian staggered right into a rune of frost and the pain shot through him like a blast of winter wind, freezing his blood and slowing the pulse of his brands to a sluggish crawl.

“ _Dorian!_ ”

The shout came a split second before Cullen slammed into him, breaking him free of the rune’s grasp. Ice cracked apart and fell from his robes as they fell and rolled, Cullen’s sword tangling briefly with the staff strapped to Dorian’s back before tearing away and skittering across the ground like it had a mind of its own. Dazed, Dorian watched helplessly as Cullen scrambled to his feet with only his shield between him and a Red Templar’s massive lyrium fist.

_Snap_. A bolt streaked through the air and buried itself in the Templar’s grossly misshapen chest. For a moment the creature paused, looking down at it as if it were merely a fly that had had the audacity to land on him. Then the bolt exploded like a grenade, and Cullen ducked as bits of lyrium and Templar were flung far and wide.

_Andraste bless you, Varric_ , Dorian thought, pulling himself to his feet.

All thoughts of prayer left him suddenly as Fenris appeared out of nowhere, a pale red ghost skidding through the air as if he were more spirit than flesh, sword held high over Cullen’s head. Dorian had barely opened his mouth before Cullen’s shield was up, taking the blow with a tremendous _crack_. The strength of the hit dented the shield’s surface and ricocheted the blade away so forcefully that it was torn from Fenris’ gauntleted hands to spin away and slam point-first into the earth where it stuck, vibrating slightly. Fenris snarled and drew his hand back, armor and flesh turning transparent through to the bone.

Dorian lunged between them before he could think twice. Three voices lifted in a joined cry—Cullen, Hawke, and Varric—but whatever outcome they’d anticipated was foiled as Fenris’ hand struck Dorian’s chest and bounced off, sending the mage careening harmlessly back into Cullen’s hold.

For a split second, the dead-eyed scowl wavered and a flicker of the personality beneath showed through. “That… usually works,” Fenris rasped.

“Sorry to disappoint you.” Dorian grinned, all teeth and no smile, and shoved one glowing palm to the elf's forehead. Both sets of brands flared blinding white, and the elf collapsed as if his strings had been cut.

The battle was, abruptly, over. Hawke fell to her knees at Fenris’ side as Dorian stepped away, shaking out his hand and shuddering. “He’s full of the red stuff—I can hear it singing from here. We need to keep him contained.”

“We need to get him to a healer,” Hawke snapped. Through gritted teeth she added, “We need to get him to Anders.”

Trevelyan pulled Bull to his feet, both of them shaken but neither quite at death’s door. “We must return to the Inquisition’s main forces,” the Inquisitor said. “We need to pull back now, before we lose any more soldiers.”

A flutter of wings cut his orders short, and then Morrigan was before them, crackling with energy as she alighted before the Well of Sorrows with Abelas on her heels. Trevelyan leapt forward, hand outstretched.

“Morrigan, wait!”

Dorian tuned out the ensuing argument, watching as Cullen knelt beside Fenris' crumpled form. Hawke allowed it, hands hovering but not quite daring to touch. The elf was clearly ill, the red lyrium armor at odds with the mineral branded into his skin. Dorian felt a sharp pang of sympathy as Cullen broke apart the gleaming crimson plate and pushed it aside. Beneath, the elf was thin and knobbly, thickly muscled but underfed so that his snug black breeches and plain, slash-sleeved tunic hung on his wasted frame. Most striking was the plain steel collar fixed around his neck, studded with red lyrium. Cullen snapped the lock with a brief burst of lyrium and flung it away, revealing burn marks where the blighted mineral had come into contact with his skin.

“A belt?” Cullen asked quietly. Dorian stripped off his own and passed it over, and Cullen tied the elf’s arms behind his back, movements firm but not cruel. It wouldn't do much to keep Fenris from pulling the same rogue-like spirit trick from before, but perhaps it would slow him down should he wake between the Temple and Skyhold. Hawke finally let herself touch him, hand alighting briefly on the concave hollow of Fenris’ sternum before pulling back. She closed her first and turned her face away, shaking.

“Morrigan will drink,” Trevelyan was saying when Cullen finally got to his feet, sounding infinitely weary. “The longer we wait, the more we risk our soldiers.”

Dorian sighed audibly, but didn’t protest. He was hardly about to volunteer, and Trevelyan, while intelligent, was no mage and certainly no elf. Whatever knowledge the Well possessed would be best put to use in Morrigan’s hands, unsavory as the thought might be.

The witch looked far too eager as she stepped into the pool, the water swirling about her hips as if it had a life of its own. Dorian stood closer to Cullen and let their arms brush together. Slight as the contact was, it brought him comfort.

Then the Well burst open. Dorian lost all touch with Cullen as he was thrown backward with the others, rolling in the bloody grass before his body fetched up hard against Fenris’ broadsword still thrust deep into the ground. He wrenched away, already feeling the burn of the red lyrium inlaid into its pommel and fuller, and pushed himself to his feet.

“ _NO_!”

The scream of rage was almost familiar at this point. Dorian turned, already cold with fear, and there Corypheus stood, a twisted creature from dark tales now reduced to a child denied its favorite toy. He reached out, claws extended, and rose into the air.

“The eluvian!” Morrigan cried. “Quickly!”

Time moved in a blur as Dorian turned, not to the empty Well and its glowing mirror, but to Cullen. The warrior stepped toward him, hand outstretched—and when the others had each driven themselves into the eluvian’s depths, Fenris borne like a sack of potatoes over Bull’s shoulder, they ran across the Well’s barren floor and through the portal side by side.

///

_Curly,_

_I’ve tried talking him, but he just tried to snap my neck through the bars. He’s not himself—he doesn’t even know who I am, or recognize my name. I guess it’s better than the way he screamed at Hawke like she was a demon straight out of the Fade. Who knows what those Red Templars did to his head._

_You helped Blondie pull through his possession problem, maybe you can work another miracle here. Fenris knows you, but I don’t think the Venatori realized that. You were on the down-low when you ran with Hawke, after all. Maybe you’re one of the few faces Broody remembers that the Red Templars haven’t tampered with. Give it a try? For Hawke, if not for me._

_I remember hearing about that cave-in, the one that nearly killed him. You were there, right? I find storytelling is excellent therapy. I bet Broody would like to hear one._

_Forever in your debt by this point, probably,_

///

The collapse catches them entirely unawares. It’s a small mission, routine, with little danger of things going wrong: two young mage children to be freed from the Gallows, a brother and sister out of Darktown who were given up to the Templars when their powers manifested in the midst of a chokedamp outbreak. They are so tiny in Cullen’s eyes, thin and quivering like a pair of nestlings ousted from their mother’s wings. It breaks his heart, a little, to think of all the others left behind.

He leads the way through the old slaver tunnel with his sword comfortably at his hip. Alain is following closely, the two children clinging tightly to his hands, and Fenris brings up the rear, a grim shadow in the dark.

One minute, all is well—the next, a distant rumble, then a roar, and Cullen drags the youngsters forward as the rotted support beams crack, bringing rubble and choking sand down upon their heads. When the dust clears, the three mages are ahead of him, huddled on the floor in a dirty but unharmed pile. Behind, a pile of gravel and broken stone. There is no sign of Fenris.

Alain scrambles to his feet before he’d even stopped coughing. “What happened, Ser Cullen?”

“The tunnel collapsed. Go for help,” he orders, giving the boy a small push. “Take the children with you, and hurry back.”

Alain nods once and takes off at a run, the two young apostates following close on his heels. They’re likely eager to get as far away from the unsteady tunnel as possible. Cullen turns back to the cave-in, fear making his voice shrill.

“Fenris! Fenris, can you hear me?”

His chest constricts when there is no immediate response. But then, raspy with dust, there comes an affirmative whisper: “I’m here.”

“Maker be praised. Are you all right? Are you injured?”

“My leg is trapped. I don’t think it’s broken.” The elf’s voice shakes, barely a murmur that Cullen has to strain to hear. He stoops to his haunches, one hand braced on the rough stone wall.

“Are you sure? You sound… shaken.”

“I don't like small spaces,” the elf admits. Some trick of the tunnels made it seem like he’s speaking directly into Cullen's ear, an oddly intimate gesture that prickles the back of his neck.

“They'll have you out in a trice,” he says in what he hopes is a reassuring manner, settling his back against one of the boulders. “I've sent Alain on ahead.”

A pause. “You're... staying?”

“Yes. I don't care for small spaces, either. I wouldn't abandon you to the dark by yourself.” Cullen sighs and closes his eyes, trying not to think of the miles of stone over his head. “If I may ask...”

“You may not,” Fenris replies sharply, but the protest is weak. Even through the rock fall, Cullen can hear the tremor in his voice.

He can’t let the elf panic. There’s no telling how the rocks might shift should Fenris begin to struggle. Without really think about it, he begins to talk, keeping his voice low to prevent the rubble from collapsing further.

“When I was a boy, I fell down a well. I was exploring a burned-out farmhouse and the floorboards gave out. I was there for a night and a day before I was found.” He rubs his arms briskly, trying to warm up. The memory is murky now in his mind, blurred by time, but he can still feel the water around his hips sludgy with ash, the clay walls slimy against his numb, grasping fingers. “I still don't like being confined.”

There’s a considering noise as Fenris thinks over what he said. “I suppose your imprisonment at the Kinloch Circle didn't help.”

“We're not talking about that,” Cullen snaps. He feels bad almost immediately, but Fenris is already talking, overrunning Cullen's discomfort with his own.

“My first real memory is waking up with something on my face. I could hardly breathe, couldn’t move. They had bandaged my face to protect the brands, but I was terrified. I thought I'd been buried alive.” The elf's voice wavers and breaks off, choked, as if he's only just realized the parallel situation. “Somehow, Danarius knew. He knew all of my weaknesses. Whenever he wanted to punish me—not just scold me, but really teach me a lesson—he would lock me in a tiny closet. No room to sit. I would stand for hours in the dark. Once I was left there for days. I couldn't—he forgot about me. And when I was let out, he… he…”

Silence. Somehow, it’s a little less oppressive than before. A darkness that has lived in Cullen’s soul for far too long is beginning to shake loose.

“The worst part.” Cullen stops, swallows. “The worst part was that I could see everything. They put a barrier around me, and I could see everything they did to my fellow Templars. My superiors. My friends.”

“Why you?” Fenris whispers.

“I don't know. I've asked myself that more times than I can count.” Cullen's fingers dig into the back of his neck, just shy of breaking the skin. “I still dream of it, sometimes. I dream of being trapped in the blackness, without any light, just hearing their screams. But it wasn't dark. Never. They'd lit torches, to illuminate every detail. Maybe… maybe my subconscious knows it, knows I can’t bear to relive that as it really was.” He pauses, just breathing in the musty air, willing himself not to picture the Circle tower in his mind’s eye. “Sometimes I think I’d rather see, and be unable to look away. It’s no less than I deserve.”

“What do you mean?” Fenris asks quietly. He sounds calmer, less hoarse, as if he is captivated by Cullen’s story rather than horrified.

“I let my experience in Kinloch change me. Make me a lesser man, the sort who would gladly point fingers at a whole group of people for the sins of a few.” He rubs his face with his hands, and his fingers come away black with sweat and dirt. “I’ve hurt people, innocent people, because of my twisted beliefs. I deserve every scrap of suffering that comes my way.”

There is silence for a very long time. Cullen is almost beginning to fear he put the elf to sleep when Fenris finally speaks. “I know very well the suffering you speak of. The anguish of my past haunts me every night. I have killed more people in my master’s name than I can count on my hands twice over. But I am not that man anymore. Neither are you.”

The plain, honest words delivered unflinching in the dark strike deep at Cullen’s heart. He wants to say something—argue, perhaps, or even ask what Fenris meant when he spoke of his own demons, but the words won’t come. And then, out of the dark, voices. Torches. Alain is returning with aid.

Cullen pushes down the small surge of disappointment and climbs to his feet. Somehow, he knows he’ll never have a chance to speak to Fenris on the subject again. It hurts more than it should.

///

_Cullen,_

_I don’t know how you did it, and I honestly don’t think I want to. Whatever past you share with Fenris was enough to bring him back from the shitty mind control the Venatori had over him, and I am forever in your debt because of that. I wanted to be angry with you, at first. If anyone could bring him back into his right mind, why shouldn’t it be me? But I know now that the Venatori used our relationship against him, and my presence was only making things worse. I wish that weren’t the case. But it was, and I can’t change it._

_I know we haven’t been the best of friends, and our parting on the Wounded Coat, after everything, was… less than amicable. (I’m trying to say I’m sorry for punching you. The Inquisition needed you more than we did, then.) But really, what you did… leaving the Templars, helping us continue to free mages from the Circle when you could have stayed on as Knight-Commander… all of that just proves that you’re a good man. And somehow, against all odds, you’ve become a great one. You spoke with Anders when I couldn’t even look him in the eye. You didn’t try to stop me when I went after Fenris, and you helped restore him from whatever horrible blood-magic puppet they’d made of him._

_I wanted to say all of this to your face, but I’m not brave enough. Fighting demons and darkspawn and everything else, that’s easy. Talking to someone, telling them you owe them everything they could ever hope to have in this world—that’s impossible. For me. So I wrote instead, and I hope it’s not a big blather of nonsense. If it is, well, Varric is the only person I’ve found who can reliably translate my bullshit into something sort of genuine, so. Maybe give him a try._

_Take care of yourself, Knight-Captain. And thanks._

_Hawke_

_PS—Fenris asked me to write this addendum, since the red lyrium poisoning gives him tremors that make it difficult for him to hold a quill. Here it is, word for word._

_Ser Cullen, it seems I owe you my life once more, for however long I have it. Someday I will find a way to repay you. The hold the Venatori had on my mind was something I haven’t felt since my earliest memories serving Danarius, and it was not something I could conquer on my own. You have my eternal friendship for this. Anything you require, ask and I will give it, if it is within my power. May the Maker go with you. –Fenris_


	12. 11.

_Dearest big brother,_

_YES!!! Ahem. That is to say, I would be delighted to meet Dorian, and of course to see you after so long. (Your brief visit last year on your way through from Kirkwall does not count.) I doubt I’ll be able to recognize you, but if you bring your lyrium enchanter along I suppose it will be hard to overlook you._

_We’re fully settled in the old homestead in Honnleath, and I have Riorden working on the loft already—he’s been talking about cleaning it out and making it fit for company for ages now, and this is as good an excuse as any. If I can persuade Branson away from his precious prize sheep, he has said he will be delighted to come and visit. If we are lucky, Rosalie her family will be moving soon to join us, although Thom is still wary of the Templar presence in Ferelden. I know they’ve been all but disbanded, but once an apostate, always an apostate, I suppose._

_Michel is doing wonderfully, and thank you for your note to him in your last letter. He absolutely dotes on Petunia, and is always telling her wild tales of Uncle Cullen’s exploits. Naturally, she wishes to become a Templar and train under you, no matter how many times I remind her that you are a Templar no longer. Ah, the minds of children._

_I worry for you. Not only with the Breach and the Inquisition and everything else, but the lyrium. I hate to think of you suffering, and I am glad to know that Dorian’s friendship has made the process easier. I can read between the lines, you know. You can’t fool me. And I have heard stories of what lyrium does to Templars who take it for too long—whatever the cost might have been, I can’t deny I’m relieved that you decided to break away from all of that. I couldn’t bear to see you again after so many years and have you not even recognize me._

_Do you remember the story mother once told us, about the knight who went off to war, carrying the token of his lady-love? He wore it ’round his wrist always, but over time the sash grew muddy and bloodied until it was no longer recognizable. The knight became hardened and bitter, forgetting his cause, losing all hope of truly triumphing over evil. The way she told it, he stopped one day to wash at a stream, and the water cleaned off the years of grime and wickedness that had corrupted his heart and his token, and he was able to remember who he truly was, the man who’d first set out to do great deeds and bring glory to his love._

_For so long, I feared you would not have that chance. That you would be buried under the weight of bad memories and evil deeds, and you would forget your family and your home. I feared you would become another man. But you took the chance when you saw it. You stopped taking lyrium, at great cost to you I’m sure, and I am forever grateful to your bravery and to the people who helped you along the way. Dorian most of all._

_So yes. Bring him to Honnleath. Branson may have a thing to say about a Templar (former or otherwise) bringing home a mage, let alone a man, but I don’t care about either of those things. All I care about is that you’re safe, and happy, and loved. So come back to us, Cullen. Fight this evil for as long as you must, but when it’s over, remember us. And come home._

_All my love,_

_Mia_

///

“Does it feel like things are coming to an end?”

Cullen rolled over and looked at him. The dark room painted his eyes a deep bronze, and Dorian longed to kiss the wrinkle of skin between his troubled brows, but he held himself back. “What do you mean?”

“Solas finished his fresco yesterday. Dagna’s returned all my books on lyrium, said she found all she could and she’s turning to other subjects. We foiled Corypheus in the Wilds, and Hawke has been reunited with her grouchy paramour. It feels like… threads are being tied up. Like the end of this great, ridiculous tale is coming to a close.”

Cullen turned in bed and lifted his arm. Dorian went willingly, slipping into the cradle of his chest, one hand coming up to smooth the soft yellow hair that tickled at his nose. “If the story is ending, what happens after?”

Dorian closed his eyes. His lover’s scent and warmth surrounded him like a familiar blanket, strengthened by the bond that ran through his lyrium brands. “I’ve thought of returning to Tevinter,” he whispered, almost hoping that Cullen wouldn’t hear. The arm around him tightened. “Not… not right away. Of course. Even if we succeed, and Trevelyan defeats Corypheus, there will be much to do in the aftermath. And I know that leaving you will be…” His throat closed up, and he had to cough a bit to clear it. “Well. Unpleasant.”

“Yes. I’m sure it will be a great chore, indeed.” Cullen’s voice was brittle and far away, even as it resonated against Dorian’s ear. The arm around his waist was loosening.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Dorian choked out. “I don’t want to be separated from you. Ever. But there are things I need to do—my mother, she doesn’t even know I’m alive. She needs to be told. The person who gave me these markings no longer lives, but there may be others who learned of his methods. I will not let them hurt anyone else like Danarius hurt me. Lyrium branding must be outlawed in Tevinter, which means I must appear before the Magisterium and present my case to them, perhaps even to the Archon. I will need support for that, political support, financial. The Inquisition has been… more than I ever expected or hoped for.” He placed a small, conciliatory kiss on Cullen’s warm breastbone. “But I cannot cling to its skirts forever.”

Cullen brushed a stubbled kiss to Dorian’s forehead in return. “Let me come with you.”

“ _Let_ you?” A dam had burst in Dorian’s chest and he laughed wildly, clutching at Cullen’s shoulder. “As if I would want it any other way. But you’re the Commander. One of the Inquisitor’s most trusted advisors. I can’t ask…. I can’t _expect_ …”

“You can expect everything, and ask for anything,” Cullen said fiercely. “You’ve earned that much and more. And when Corypheus is defeated, the Inquisition’s role will shift. Change. We cannot follow in our predecessor’s footsteps, clinging to militarism and the trappings of war.”

“You’re saying Trevelyan will disband the soldiers?”

“Not all of them, certainly. But we cannot be a primarily military force any longer. There will be less need for a Commander. Less need for _me_ , specifically.” Cullen shifted down the bed so that they were face to face and cupped Dorian’s cheek in one hand, a sweet echo of their first kiss that brought a pang to Dorian’s chest. “There are three officers that spring to mind right now whom I could recommend as replacements. So don’t you dare leave me here, Dorian. Where you go, I will follow.” He smiled. “To the Black City and back. Don’t you remember?”

“As if I could forget, _amatus_.” Dorian sighed and pressed their foreheads together. “Yes. All right. I… am sorry I doubted you.”

“As well you should be.” Cullen kissed him to soften the sting, and sighed when Dorian kissed back hotly, tongue teasing at the corner of his mouth, at the harsh line of his scar.

“But what of you?” Dorian murmured into his mouth. “Have you no plans? No hopes and dreams for when we write this story’s epilogue?”

“I had thought to visit my family,” Cullen admitted. “It’s been… too long since I’ve seen them. And I don’t write nearly often enough, to my sister’s chagrin.”

“Then we must do that.”

“We?”

“Naturally. If you desire it, of course.” Dorian smirked, eyes glinting sharp silver in the dark. “I could always camp just at the edge of your sister’s farm and stare wistfully at the smoke rising from her hearthfire as you—ow! Stop it, you brute!” He writhed under Cullen’s probing fingers, lips pressed together to keep the laughter at bay. “Cease and desist, I beg of—ouch! _Cullen_ , honestly.”

Cullen soothed the nip he’d given his ear with a soft kiss, then a tease with the tip of his tongue. “You’re always welcome in my family’s home, Dorian, don’t be ridiculous. I just wasn’t sure if you’d… want to.” He frowned at Dorian’s scandalized expression. “I mean it. We’re… well, I don’t know how to put this delicately, love. My family isn’t destitute, but we’re farmers. Laborers. My father raised milk cows and they were his dearest love. He never wanted anything more grand than a sturdy barn and a roof over his head. My brother is much the same. And my sisters have their small families and they work to the bone to keep their children happy and fed, but they’re contented with their lot. As I would have been, had I not been consumed with the desire to become a Templar. Do you… understand what I’m saying?”

Dorian could hardly believe his ears. “I think you’re trying to say you’re ashamed of your background in comparison to mine, but _amatus_ … you realize my own father sold me to the Venatori rather than deal with having an invert son? I fail to see how all the gold and luxury in the world could make up for that.” He stroked the cleft of Cullen’s chin with his thumb. “If I could have had that life, a simple, honest, hardworking life, and missed out on all the pain and misery my family wrought on me, I would reach for it in a heartbeat.”

Cullen smiled and held him tighter, something like relief in his voice: “I wish you could have had that life, too. But something tells me you wouldn’t have been the same Dorian I know and love.”

“Perhaps,” Dorian allowed. His fingers toyed with the waistband of Cullen’s smalls, making his lover squirm against him. “I suppose there’s no use in what-ifs. Having you, and facing whatever future comes at your side, is enough for me.”

///

_Dorian,_

_Thank you for letting me poke and prod at you the other day. I know it was hardly comfortable, but Hawke appreciates your sacrifice, as do I. I never thought I’d say this, but I actually feel bad for that damned elf. I wouldn’t wish red lyrium on anyone, regardless of past… disagreements. That may be putting it mildly, but I’m more inclined to think well of him these days. Must be getting soft in my old age._

_I won’t be sticking around Skyhold for much longer. I trust your healers to oversee the regimen I’ve prescribed for Fenris, and the dirty looks I get per day have multiplied rapidly. I don’t fear for my life, even with all these bloody Templars around the place, but it’s… discomfiting. I suppose I brought that on myself. (Do me a favor and don’t tell Hawke I said that. She never approved of my actions in Kirkwall, even though we were on the same side.)_

_I’ll bid farewell in person before I leave, but I wanted to write you just in case that isn’t possible. The end of the world is nearly upon us, after all. I can’t help but feel as if I played a role in it, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t stick around to see the results. I’m actually hoping to find the Hero of Ferelden. This false Calling grows more difficult to bear each day, and I’ve decided I want in on this taint-reversal business. She was my Knight-Commander, once, so one hopes that my presence will be welcome. Sister Leliana has given me a few places to start looking. I’ll miss our talks, but I expect I’ll keep writing to you from wherever I end up. Someone ought to miss me while I’m gone, after all._

_Give my love to Hawke, if she’ll accept it. Maker knows I wouldn’t._

_Anders_

///

Dorian was in his alcove when the sky exploded overhead. He wasn’t even the slightest bit ashamed that his first thought wasn’t for the Inquisitor, or for Corypheus, or even for himself—instead his mind went straight to Cullen, who was no doubt in the middle of a war council that had just gone terribly, terribly wrong. He set his book aside with deceptively steady hands as the castle went to chaos and closed his eyes, seeking the certainty of the bond.

_There_. _Fight, flee, fury—resignation. The end is upon us._

He wanted to go straight to the war room, propriety and apocalypse be damned, but he knew there would be little time, and he didn’t want to waste a single second of it. Ignoring the pull of Cullen’s riotous emotions, he went quickly to his rooms and changed his scholar’s robes for the battlemage armor Trevelyan had commissioned expressly for him. It was a deep russet-orange, fashioned from drake scales, and trimmed in deep blue velvet laced with enchantments. It tingled against his brands as he fastened the buckles, flooding him with awareness and precision; with smooth efficiency he took his staff and strapped it to his back before leaving his chambers to seek out Cullen.

He found him in the officer barracks, overseeing the last mad rush. Dorian pressed flat to the wall and watched him barking orders, dressed in full plate and radiating surety in a benevolent wave. It was almost enough to banish the panic curling in his gut—almost.

The last officer left, and they were alone. Cullen turned to him as if magnetized and they pulled each other flush, foreheads pressed together, fingers tangled as they breathed as one.

“My lion,” Dorian whispered, full of reverence.

Cullen closed his eyes. “Swear to me we’ll make it through this.”

“I would allow nothing less. The Inquisitor wants us with him?”

“Yes.”

“I thought as much. I’m ready.” Dorian slipped his fingers beneath the feathered ruff of Cullen’s cloak and cupped his neck, damp and vulnerable beneath his armor. “ _Amatus_ …”

Cullen’s face was creased with worry. “We don’t have time.”

“I know. I know.” He kissed him once, fiercely, sandpaper-rough and stark with feeling. “I love you.”

“And I you. Eternally.” Cullen drew away, watching as Dorian fumbled in his belt pouch for something: a small stone jar with a rune carved in the top. “What is that?”

“Dagna made it. She said it’s supposed to help solidify the bond, and protect you against lyrium-augmented attacks—but even if it doesn’t, it’ll make me feel better.” He unscrewed the cap to reveal a pale blue paste that glowed when Dorian scooped his branded finger into it. “War paint. Made from refined lyrium and a scraping she took from one of my brands. It was painless,” he added when Cullen began to recoil. “She didn’t even break the skin. Hold still.”

Cullen obeyed, bowing forward slightly with eyes closed. Dorian hesitated. “Well? Get on with it.”

“It’s just… never mind.” With a shaking hand, Dorian painted a thick blue line down the center of Cullen’s brow to the tip of his nose, then sweeping half-moons beneath his eyes bordered by thick dots. The last of the paste was slashed diagonally across his cheekbones, and one small streak from the middle of his lip to his chin. Cullen blinked rapidly when he was done, eyes dark.

“Did it work?”

“It’s… odd. Like your hand is hovering just at the back of my neck, but not quite touching down.” He smiled, crinkling the lyrium paint. “It’s good. Thank you.” He snagged the back of Dorian’s neck and kissed him again, leaving a bit of the paste on Dorian’s lower lip, tasting like wet stone and summer storms.

“Into battle?” Dorian whispered, gazing with new eyes at the marked face of his lover. Cullen wore the stripes proudly, and a new fierceness had entered his bearing, shoulders high and smile crooked like the grin of a wild beast on the cusp of his next kill.

He bowed his yellow head and touched Dorian’s cheek one last time. “Into battle.”

///

_Hey Hawke,_

_I thought I'd try something new. Let me know what you think. I don't normally do poetry, but the rhythm of this particular story called for more than simple prose. Cassandra loved it, of course, but she’s hardly my harshest critic. At least I can trust you to be brutally honest._

 

_Excerpted from “The Enchanter and the Templar” (working title)—_

 

Bold he was, wreathed in light and holy purpose, but on deaf ears

his challenge fell as Corypheus raised his arms, and with them, ground.

Beneath their feet an untold rumbling, mountain’s bones belying sundered soil;

and, grim-faced, the gathered soldiers held their ground against each other

as the crust of Thedas cracked like broken teeth and lifted high

the home of Sacred Ashes.

 

“Protect the Inquisitor!”

—a valiant shout that rent the air, against all odds of storm and fire.

Though frail, their bodies weak alone against such awesome power,

together they were more.

The Templar boldly braced himself alone in brave defiance,

sword aloft, a shining beacon in the dark.

The sight struck hope in all their hearts; reborn as one they moved together,

a wall of flesh and blood and faith around their fragile leader,

the prophet, the Herald of Andraste.

 

The fight was long and arduous. Had he but stood alone,

Andraste’s prophet would have fallen, his holy mandate not enough

to stem the darkspawn’s wroth. But loyalty proved stronger than

the promises of Chants and tales.

Beside him stood the faithless Warden, the truthful Seeker,

swords and shields aloft in unity—

the fearless archer, arrows singing, bow strung tight in lofty melody—

the Hawke ablaze, her foe reborn but crafted still of blood and spirit

weak enough for rending—

the spirit mage with body more of Fade than flesh,

his heart the warning cry of justice, and at his side the snapping wolf,

their power greater blended now to face the foe together—

a giant built of stone and breath, his battle-cries born from laughter, his side defended

by the humble bard with songs erupting fast as arrows—

a queen of might and frost, her guard a wraith within a human prison, and with their

flashing blades and singing steel, a lonely sorcerer fought with fury,

a hundred untold ages pressed and pressed until they burst

into the fury of a god.

And always in the thick of battle, the thrumming song of lyrium a link

of light between them, the Enchanter and his Templar bold

set fire to the fray.

 

The mighty dragon was but a fly before their sundering power.

Though they fought apart, a field of blood and scorch between them, they moved as one:

the Mage a shining blue-white pillar flinging stone and lightning from on high,

and closer in the thick of battle,

the Templar with his sword aflame and bright with righteous fury.

When the dragon fell, it shrieked, to no avail—that fight was done,

and bloodied grim the warriors made their weakened way to take the final stand.

 

I saw him then, the mouthpiece of the Maker,

two knives aloft and gleaming black with the blood of his presumptuous foe.

One hand flamed green with stolen power as he faced Corypheus—

the darkspawn shrieked a taunt, a scream of rage, as that which he had made,

a small red sun to steal the light of gods,

once more became his enemy.

The Herald stood alone, disciples strewn about the mountain-top

awaiting final judgement—and, hand thrust out,

he took what life was left within that cracked and barren breast

until Corypheus was no more.

 

And the world was torn asunder.


	13. outro.

The vestibule of the Archon's receiving hall was clearly meant to be intimidating. It was as long as Skyhold's nave, and wider, flanked by enormous pillars spaced evenly along marble walls inlaid with lapis lazuli and onyx. Between the pillars stood statues of previous archons, each more resplendent than the last. Floor-to-ceiling windows were edged in gold, and hung with thick velvet drapes that depicted colorful hunting panoramas in their rich folds. Cullen felt a little dizzy looking at it all.

Behind him, Dorian rested a hand briefly on his lower back before moving to stand at an appropriate distance from his shoulder. “Doing all right?”

“I feel like an ant preparing to be crushed beneath a gold-encrusted heel,” Cullen murmured. “But never mind me—what about you?”

“Me? Oh, I'm just dandy. Meeting with the figurehead of the Tevinter Imperium, reuniting with long-lost family members… all in a day's work, really.”

There were too many eyes here for him to safely gather Dorian into his arms, but Cullen brushed his knuckles against his lover's hand as he turned to face him. “It will be fine. You're Inquisition, now. Nothing in all of Thedas can touch you.”

Dorian eyed him, full mouth threatening to stretch into a smirk. “Except you, I hope. I'm rather fond of your touch.”

Cullen flushed and looked away, but whatever reply he thought to give was lost as he noticed an elderly elf approaching them. He was clearly no mere slave, tall and stately as a noble, and dressed in a neat uniform bearing the sigil of House Pavus. Cullen's blood grew cold. “Dorian.”

The mage turned and let out a small cry of delight. “Sebren!”

Heads turned all over the hall, but Dorian was oblivious. He strode forward and clasped the elf by the shoulders, grinning. “Maker, it's good to see you.”

“Master Dorian,” the elf said solemnly, though his eyes were twinkling as he bowed. “You look well. I trust your journey was smooth?”

“Smoother than the last trip I took through Tevinter,” Dorian said with a smirk. “What are you doing here? I thought you had been made Liberati.”

“You were not misinformed. I serve Magister Aquinea as a scribe and… various other duties.” A spy, then. Interesting. “She hopes to welcome you privately before your audience with Radonis, if you are willing.”

Dorian went perfectly still. “The others…”

“Your companions are certainly welcome,” Sebren said, bowing in their general direction. From the corner of his eye, Cullen saw that they had clustered loosely a short distance away, giving them privacy even as they watched with avid curiosity. “If my lord will follow me?”

Dorian hesitated, then gestured for the rest of them to follow.

They were led through the same obscure side door that Sebren had emerged from into a narrow corridor, still elegantly appointed but without the ostentatious grandeur of the vestibule. Away from the prying eyes of the Archon’s other petitioners, Cullen allowed his hand to brush Dorian’s. Immediately the mage laced their fingers together and held on tightly. Excess energy pulsed down the bond, and Cullen tried to soothe him as best he could; but he was just as nervous, heart racing as Sebren led them into another chamber. It was small, furnished in white marble and velvet, and empty but for one person.

Dorian’s mother.

She was facing away from them, gazing out a window, but Cullen could make out the coil of her black hair braided high on her head, a perfect match for Dorian’s, and the bold arch of an aquiline nose against the bright light that poured in from outside. Her gown was cut high around the waist in the Tevinter style, sleeveless but high-collared, and it was gathered at the back in a train that fell like a peacock’s tail in layers and layers of iridescent feathers. She turned as the door clicked shut behind him, and Cullen swallowed.

He had never met Halward Pavus, but he knew in an instant that Dorian took after his mother. She had the same stormy eyes Cullen had seen in the portrait Felix still carried, the same full mouth and arched patrician brow. Her raven hair was streaked with silver at the temples, her face lightly lined, but those scant markers of her age only served to add wisdom to her demeanor. Upon seeing Dorian, she let out a small sound of distress and came a few paces toward them.

“Dorian,” she said, her melodic voice pitched low and taut with suppressed emotion.

“Mother.” Dorian’s voice broke and he released Cullen’s hand, striding toward her. She met him halfway and he swept her up in an embrace, face buried in the bare crook of her shoulder.

“My darling boy,” she whispered, and held him close. Cullen glanced away. He felt as if he were intruding on an intensely private moment. The others clearly felt the same—Josephine and Leliana had politely averted their eyes, as had the Iron Bull, and Cassandra was staring at the floor between her feet. Only the Inquisitor did not look away, face carefully blank and hands folded neatly behind his back.

Cloth rustled and someone sniffed, and Cullen looked up to see Magister Aquinea pulling away reluctantly. She immediately cupped Dorian’s face and brought him down again to kiss his cheek, then his brow. “Oh, Dorian. I can’t believe it.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t write you,” Dorian whispered, nearly inaudible despite the bated breath of their audience. “I—I wanted to, but the danger…”

“There’s no need to explain. Felix and Sebren told me everything. Oh, Dorian, I wish I had known. I wish I could have prevented it.” Her eyes shone with tears as she traced the lyrium on her son’s face. “Does it hurt very badly?”

“It did. Not anymore.” He caught her birdlike wrists in his hands, fingers tracing the delicate bones with infinite gentleness. “I don’t blame you, Mother. You weren’t at fault.” He swallowed. “Is Father…”

“Halward has already been tried for his crimes.” Aquinea’s voice was brittle, but she stood firmly in her son’s loose embrace like a pillar of velvet and steel. “He was executed for conspiring against the Archon and for his allegiance with the Venatori.”

Dorian’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry. I had hoped…”

“He was beyond saving, my love,” she whispered. “I petitioned the Archon to wait, to let you see him one more time, perhaps find some sort of closure—but his treason could not go unpunished.” She touched his cheek again, as if the brands drew her hand, but she was infinitely gentle and Dorian did not flinch away. “It’s over now.”

“It’s a relief, if I’m honest,” he said quietly. He turned his head and kissed the tips of her fingers, then took her hand in his and drew away. “Mother, if I may introduce my companions?”

“Yes, of course. Forgive me inattention, my lords and ladies.” A veneer fell over her like the stroke of a brush, painting over grief and complex joy with stately poise. “I am Magister Aquinea of House Pavus, and on behalf of the Magisterium I welcome you to the Palace of Archon Radonis and to Minrathous.”

Josephine came to the fore and curtseyed deeply, kingsweave skirts pooling around her in an elegant fall of gold. “We are honored by your reception, Magister Aquinea. I am Lady Josephine Montilyet, Ambassador of the Inquisition. May I present Lord Inquisitor Trevelyan and his companions: Lady Seeker Pentaghast of Nevarra; Sister Leliana the Nightingale; Messere Varric Tethras of the Kirkwall Merchant's Guild; the Iron Bull, Captain of the Chargers Mercenary Company and consort to Lord Trevelyan; and Ser Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition’s military forces.” She glanced briefly at Dorian, who smiled.

“And consort to Lord Dorian Pavus, if you don’t mind, Lady Ambassador,” the mage finished cheekily.

Cullen’s blush rivaled the shade of his dress uniform as Lady Aquinea’s eyes raked over him. “Ser Rutherford, was it?” she asked lightly, her mellow voice gone smooth and dark as twice-boiled honey. “An honor.”

She extended one hand, glinting with more jewels than seemed possible for one woman to wear at a time, and Cullen broke formation to brush the slightest suggestion of a kiss over her knuckles. Her skin was impossibly smooth and smelled of cloves and jasmine oil—foreign, and yet so very familiar.

“And my Lord Inquisitor, of course. And all of you.” She smiled, shedding a little of her haughty manner. “My son keeps quite lofty company these days.”

“And a good thing, too, as I’m appearing before the Archon shortly.” Dorian tucked his mother’s arm through his, clearly intent on keeping her close. “Have you any idea what he intends?”

“A formal apology, I have no doubt, for the Venatori’s actions against you and your forced flight from Tevinter. Beyond that, I am uncertain. Sebren?”

The elf came forward from the shadows, startling everyone except Leliana. “My lady.”

“Fetch Magister Tilani, if you please. She’s been longing to see Dorian and it would be cruel to keep her waiting any longer.”

Dorian’s face brightened all over again. “Mae is here?”

“Of course she is. She will be accompanying us when you have your audience with the Archon.”

“She’s to be my sponsor?”

“As if she would let anyone else have the honor. I regret that our blood relation prevents me from performing that duty, but I am content to hand it over to her instead.”

The same door they’d entered through slid open, and another woman entered, older than Dorian but not as old as Aquinea. She was fair for a Tevinter, with golden curls arranged into a neat coif and tucked beneath a net of twinkling jewels. She embraced Dorian to her tightly, powder blue skirts swirling as he caught her up and spun her around.

“Put me down this instant, you obstinate boy,” she scolded, though she was flushed and laughing. “Maker, but you’ve only grown more handsome with time.” She cupped his cheeks in her hands much the way his mother had, thumbs brushing the bright flecks of lyrium beneath his eyes.

Their reunion was much noisier than the one that came before, full of exclamations and informality, and Cullen made the mistake of relaxing. He was watching as Dorian showed off the new trick he’d learned that allowed him to phase his arm into an incorporeal spirit-form, when a soft touch came on his elbow and Magister Aquinea was suddenly beside him.

“Ser Rutherford,” she greeted him, and there was steel beneath the gentle timbre of her voice. “When dear Felix wrote to say my dead son was coming to Minrathous, alive and well, he failed to mention that Dorian had acquired a _beau_ on his adventures.”

“I—er—is that so?” Cullen stammered. He sent a ping of distress through the bond, but Dorian was basking in Mae’s good-humored attentions and didn’t seem to feel it.

“He did, however, speak at some length about an ex-Templar who had formed some sort of mental link with my son. I know Dorian, Ser Rutherford. I know his proclivities and his tastes, both of which run toward… the finer things. Forgive me when I express my surprise that he has willingly chosen, of all things, a common Ferelden soldier to warm his bed at night.”

Cullen bristled. “Milady, if you are insinuating that I manipulated our bond to control your son’s affections, you are greatly mistaken. I love Dorian, wholly and without reservation. I would give my life to keep him safe. I am sorry if my… background is unsavory to you, but you will find that whatever his _tastes_ as a young man, I am more than equal to the taste of satisfying him as an adult.”

Oh, Maker take him, that had come out sounding rather differently than he’d hoped. But Aquinea did not seem displeased or offended. Almond-shaped eyes regarded him briefly with surprise, and then with satisfaction, and her hand gentled on his elbow. “Indeed. Forgive my accusations, Commander, but I find that after so long believing him dead, I have a great deal of maternal instinct to catch up on.”

“Of course, milady.” He drew a deep breath and let it out again as discretely as he could manage. His heart was still pounding, but it slowed as he presented her with a slight bow. “I would expect no less.”

“Mother, what are you saying to Cullen that has him looking like a turtle without its shell?”

Dorian sauntered over, fashionably late to the rescue, with Magister Tilani sparkling and sharp-eyed beside him.

“Tsk, Dorian, such manners,” his mother said. “Your Commander is clearly a lion—even I can see that, and I’ve known him for all of five minutes.” She dropped a subtle wink to Cullen and squeezed his arm companionably. “But enough chit-chat. Here is Sebren, no doubt with news from the Archon.”

The elf had indeed returned, as cool and unflappable as ever. He bowed low to the entire group, but addressed Dorian when he said, “The Archon is prepared to receive you, Lord Dorian. If you would just follow me.”

They fell in line obediently, and Dorian sidled up to Cullen in the hall, bond thrumming with happiness and nerves. "Well? You survived?"

"Barely," Cullen murmured, but he was smiling. "She may yet flay me alive."

"I lived through meeting your sister, amatus, enduring my mother is the least you can do in return."

"I suppose so. Hush now, we're here."

Outside the receiving room at last, they allowed Josephine to arrange them in the appropriate manner. Cullen felt as if they were arriving at Halamshiral all over again. At least this uniform was less itchy and more like ceremonial plate than the flimsy red wool he’d been forced to wear in Orlais. His phoenix-scale overcoat was stained a deep crimson, high-collared but open at the throat to expose the gleaming gilt chainmail shirt beneath. A deep blue sash was wrapped around his waist beneath a sturdy leather belt, on which hung his trusty sword, its pommel freshly wrapped and its scabbard polished to a deep mahogany shine for the occasion. And his boots, Maker bless them, were brand new but perfectly sturdy and serviceable, with flat soles that didn’t click on the marble floor as he walked.

Josephine positioned him abreast of the Inquisitor, each of them behind Dorian by a few paces and flanking Leliana. Cassandra and Bull brought up the rear, looking appropriately intimidating. Dorian fidgeted restlessly as they waited at the great double doors. At his side, Magister Tilani placed a hand on his bared arm, lightly brushing the brands—through the bond, Cullen could feel the slight calm that radiated through Dorian at her touch.

“It’s going to be all right,” she murmured. Her blue gown looked nearly silver next to the deep purple-black of Dorian’s velvet tunic, a pleasant visual symmetry to the white glow of his brands against his skin. They were stunning together. Cullen let his mind drift briefly to the thought of Dorian matched with the formidable Magister—a miserable lot, perhaps, but together they could have swept through the Tevinter court and turned the Imperium on its head. Perhaps they still would.

Dorian glanced over his shoulder at Cullen as if hearing his idle musings. “I know,” he said to Maevaris, though he refused to look away from Cullen’s face. “I’m ready.”

The doors opened.

Magister Tilani slipped her hand through the crook of Dorian’s elbow, polite but distant. From inside the room, Cullen heard the crier announce their names in a ringing voice. Josephine stood aside and took her place at Dorian’s left hand. She nodded.

Cullen took a deep breath, and they stepped through the open doors and into the throne room, together.

 

_fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Well that's that. But not really, because I have at least seven missing scenes/one-shot sequels planned, including that visit to Mia's family in Honnleath. I won't be exploring Cullen's history with Hawke and co. too much, because I have a concept floating around for a completely different 'verse wherein Cullen is a rogue Knight-Captain secretly sneaking mages out of the Gallows with Anders' help, but we'll see. 
> 
> I churned this baby out in about two weeks after three weeks of procrastination, and it feels odd to post the whole thing cold like I'm Beyonce or something. But anyway, I hope you enjoyed it, and don't get used to the whole-fic-out-of-thin-air thing, I'm usually a lot better at drawing it out. Let me know what you think of it, and you can find me on tumblr at erebones.tumblr.com for lots of Dragon Age and fic updates!
> 
> For those interested, I listened to the album "Sun" by Thomas Bergerson a lot while writing this fic, and it sort of became the soundtrack in my head. I recommend checking it out, it's got great, sweeping instrumental scores that really get the blood pumping!


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